


Refrain

by chillestavenger



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Infidelity, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, but otherwise t, combo of Leroux and ALW, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:34:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23976694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chillestavenger/pseuds/chillestavenger
Summary: Years after the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera, Christine and Raoul have married and started a new life in Vienna. But when fate brings Erik back into her life Christine realizes she has much more to learn - about music, about Erik, and most importantly, about herself.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 40
Kudos: 123





	1. Chapter 1

He took her back to the Opera. After taking her out of her career, her country, her father’s name, she never thought she’d be here again. She never thought she’d want to. In truth, she’d been all too happy to let Raoul erase all traces of who Christine had been before she was a Viscountess. She’d practically begged him to. But now, years later in Vienna, Christine had to put her foot down. It was becoming downright strange in their newfound social circle that Raoul and Christine turned down any invitation to the solemn and grand Hofoper. And the more she avoided it, the more that building and all it represented for her loomed large in the back of her mind. So she finally convinced Raoul that it would be easier to just accept the next invitation. That she was tired of letting her past rule her. So, reluctantly, he took her back to the Opera.  
Of all the emotions Christine expected to feel during the first first act she’d sat through in years, she hadn’t considered boredom. But she couldn’t help it. The staging was clunky and outdated, and the acting was over exaggerated in a poor attempt to compensate. Of course, it was the singing that really brought Christine up short. To call it mediocre would be generous, Christine thought, and unbidden another voice rose in her mind. It was too easy to imagine what he would have had to say about this production; something equal parts derisive and clever, something that would make Christine feel guilty for laughing so hard. Guilt was always there at the bottom of her stomach when it came to him, and she reached out to take Raoul’s hand even though she knew from experience that it would do little to push the feeling away. Raoul tore his eyes away from the stage to smile at her. He leaned close and whispered,

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” and Christine had to swallow what would have been a very inappropriate giggle.

“It’s certainly nice to see a performance again,” she murmured, trying to be diplomatic.

Raoul caught her meaning and grinned. “That sounds like a nice way of saying it’s dreadful. I’ve no taste for this sort of thing, do I?”

“A fine thing to say to someone whose performances you used to compliment quite often.” Christine grinned, so he’d know she was kidding. Raoul shook his head and nudged her shoulder and this was fine, Christine told herself. This was what normal couples did when they went to the opera together. They got bored and teased each other and didn’t become maudlin about the past. And it didn’t really matter, she insisted in her head, that Raoul didn’t understand something that was apart of her so intrinsically. That he would never be able to truly appreciate or relate to the only thing she’d ever been good at, the only thing that had ever been hers, that used to make her feel she could fly. That part of her life was over, and she was being a vain little girl about it.

But still, when intermission blessedly arrived, Christine lied and said she was going to the toilet and found a balcony instead. It was a crisp Autumn night so no one else had been drawn outside for the short break, and Christine herself wasn’t particularly comfortable in her thin wrap. But she was alone, and that’s all that mattered. What she was about to do was incredibly rude, and petty, but she needed to know if she was right. Christine suspected that after years without singing, no warm up and no former knowledge of the piece, she could still sing the Soprano’s part of this show’s main duet better than the actress had. She took a deep breath, and found her starting note.   
Even unaccompanied, her voice thin and unpracticed, Christine was immediately swept away in the song. She hadn’t sung once since her last performance at the Opera, not even a distracted tune while she bathed or performed a mindless task. It was as if her throat had closed the last time the Paris Opera’s doors had closed on her. But oh, it was open now. She had tears on her face and she was getting too loud, it was improper and she was acting unstable and Raoul would be worried, but she didn’t care. Something burst inside her as she finished the first verse, a dam she’d had up for years, and it felt wonderful. The silence rang around her as she stopped singing. There was more to the song, but it was the baritone’s part, and it was almost as if Christine was waiting for him to come in. And then, somehow, he did. Softly at first, the baritone’s part of the duet began to weave around her, and for a moment Christine thought she truly had lost her mind because she knew that voice. She knew it in her dreams and in her nightmares, knew it behind a mirror and at the back of her mind and coming from a towering masked figured and a crouched frightened one and she had never, ever thought she would hear it again. “Erik?” she choked, looking wildly around her. And then he was materializing in front of her, stepping out of the shadows like he had always been there. Any wild accusations of him following her died on her lips because his strange eyes looked just as dumbfounded as she felt. “Why, how are you here?”

She watched his mouth, the only part of his face not obscured by the black mask, work soundlessly for a few seconds before he finally managed. “I might ask you the same thing. Assuming of course that I’m not talking to a hallucination but you seem-” he stopped, looked at her in that all encompassing way he had that made her feel like he could see inside her soul, “-real.”

“I am. I mean, I’m at the opera” she gestured stupidly behind her “with Raoul.” Her husband’s name seemed to break some sort of spell, and Christine only realized how close the two of them had gotten when Erik took a step back. “And you?” she asked weakly.

“Well I am not attending the opera with the rest of Vienna’s finest.” He paused. “I live here. Old habits.” He tilted his head. “I heard you singing, and I couldn’t believe it was really you.”

“Neither could I.” She shook her head, trying to understand, to assemble her thoughts in some sort of logical progression. 

“Shouldn’t you be running?” Erik asked softly.

“What?”

“Shouldn’t you be running back to the Vicomte, telling him the monster is here, making plans to cut your vacation short and return home?”

Christine couldn’t tell if he was taunting her or genuinely asking, but she chose honesty regardless. “Vacation? We live here. And I do need to get back, to Raoul and the Opera but-” she paused, exhaled, tried to pluck words out of the whirlwind of emotions inside her. “Can I see you again?” She was crying again and she couldn’t quite say why. “Can we sing?”

Erik sucked in a breath like she’d slapped him. “You want to see me again?” He echoed, clearly shocked.

She nodded. “I can’t explain – I don’t understand why but, I need to?” She hadn’t meant it to sound like a question, but it was. Her words hung there, a moment or a lifetime, and she was already wondering if she could try to take them back when he finally said

“Allright.”

“Really?” She hardly recognized the eager voice that jumped out of her.

“Yes. Tomorrow, when you can. Meet me at the servants’ entrance around the back. I’ll know when you’re there.” And then he was gone, dissolving back into the shadows like he was one of them. 

Christine found her way back to her seat in a daze. She was sure that Raoul spoke to her and that she responded, that the second act of the Opera went on much the same as the first had, but for the life of her she couldn’t tell. It was as though she’d left most of herself on that balcony in the cold night air.


	2. Chapter 2

She didn’t sleep that night, so much as drift in and out of memories. By the time she woke she didn’t know why she’d wanted to see Erik again, but she was also sure that she would keep their engagement. She didn’t realize how quiet she was being during breakfast until Raoul finally folded over the top of his newspaper and said “Is there something wrong Christine?”

She looked up from where she’d been pushing her food around with her fork. “Oh, no. I’m just tired, I think. It was a late night.”

Raoul frowned. “It was the opera, wasn’t it? I knew we shouldn’t have gone.”

Christine let her breath out in something that was half laugh, half sigh. He wasn’t wrong, exactly “Perhaps not.” But oh, the damage was done. There was no taking back last night. “I suppose I’ve been a little – rattled.”

Raoul reached across the table and took her hand in his. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Would you like me to cancel my business in town this morning?”

Christine shook her head quickly. “No, nothing like that. I’ll be fine, honestly.” He still looked unsure, so she forced her expression into a cheerful one and shooed him off with her napkin. “Come now, you can’t abandon all your business every time your wife hears an off key concerto. I’m fine dearest. Off you go.”

He smiled, but still looked a little uncertain. “If you’re sure…” he trailed off. 

“Positive.” She nodded. She thought it should bother her more, how easy it was to lie to her husband. But hadn’t it always been this way? In truth hadn’t they started like this, Christine lying to try to protect Raoul from the darker parts of herself, from him? It was like Erik had said last night. Old habits. 

At any rate Christine reassured Raoul until he felt comfortable leaving her, and she wasn’t sure if she’d done it for his benefit or her own. Either way, she was alone now, free to do as she wanted. It was not yet noon, and Raoul would be gone most of the day.

She pretended, for a while, that she was undecided. That she might make the decent, reasonable, sane choice. But there was no fooling herself. A brief snatch of song on a balcony last night had been not just the best she’d felt in years, but the most she’d felt. There was no way she wasn’t going back for more.

Christine arrived at the Opera house and had her chauffer, one of the two that she and Raoul employed, drop her in the front even though she planned to walk around to the back entrance. She tried not to worry what he thought of her, demanding to be taken to the opera house alone, in the middle of the day. She tried to remind herself that he worked for her, that she didn’t owe him an explanation of her actions, but that was hardly true. It was Raoul’s money that paid Heinrich’s wages, and she still felt out of place giving orders to people who probably came from more money and fine breeding than she did. Besides, she knew that Heinrich would gossip with the other servants. She could only hope none of them would be bold enough to bring the gossip to her husband’s ears. She felt jumpy and a little ill, as she made her way around the large building and found a much less grand entryway in the back. She approached the door, and it swung open at the lightest touch of her fingers. No one that she could see was on the other side, so she took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

She was in a dim corridor, a small amount of sunlight streaming in from high windows. She looked around, but all she saw was a series of unremarkable doors and smaller halls branching off from hers. “Erik?” she called softly, feeling foolish. A door to her right opened, seemingly of its own accord. She let out a breath and felt the shadow of a smile form on her face. She was still jumpy and on edge, but it somehow made her feel better that Erik was still up to his theatrics. Did some part of him still want to impress her with his magic tricks? Doors continued to open as she approached, leading her on a winding path through the back end of the Opera. She passed racks of costumes, set pieces with faded paint, and it was all so eerily familiar. Christine knew that if she wanted to leave she’d have no idea how to find the exit at this point, but she didn’t care. Suddenly she was twenty again, waiting backstage for her debut and feeling like a whole new person. Finally she found herself climbing a narrow, winding staircase that leveled out in a space that stretched long and wide with a low, curved ceiling. It seemed she was at the very top of the opera house, inside the shallow dome on the roof. Although it was daytime outside, there were no windows here, and inside it was all candle light and crimson and black velvet. And there in the center of it all, he stood, watching her with those strange golden eyes as she took in his new domain. He didn’t seem in a rush to speak, and for her part Christine had no idea what to say. But they couldn’t just stand there gawking at each other forever, and the silence was becoming unbearable. “You couldn’t have just met me at the entrance?” she managed weakly, as it was all that came to mind. In the dim light, she could just see his lips turn up in the smallest of smiles. Something in her chest loosened, just a little bit.

“My apologies, Madame DeChagny.” 

“Christine,” she corrected automatically. There had been no bite to his mocking words. He was scared, she realized with a pang. Perhaps even more than she was. She was invading his home, after all.

“Why are you here, Christine?” His beautiful voice was soft, guarded. It was on the tip of her tongue to say she didn’t know, that this was all terribly improper and she should go. But what was the point of such a torturous dance? It was all too clear from her actions today that even if she left now, she would be back.

“I missed you,” she said, because it was true. Though she knew better, his voice had filled her dreams ever since she left, and all the pain and fear and ugliness of their end hadn’t quite been enough to stop her from yearning for the beauty of how they had begun. His eyes widened at her words, but he didn’t say anything. She shrugged inelegantly. “That’s the only answer I have. Why did you let me come?”

“You’re no fool, Christine. You know the answer to that question.” His eyes locked on hers for just a moment, and the fire behind them sent a chill up her spine. But then he looked away, and seemed to compose himself behind his mask. “To hear you sing, of course. You must have noticed last night, I haven’t had the pleasure of listening to a talented soprano in – quite some time.”

She exhaled, thankful for steadier ground. “Yes the actress last night was - well, I’m surprised you’ve let her stay for so long.” She clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified. She hadn’t been here a moment and she was already making assumptions and accusations. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean - ” he waved a hand, and she trailed off.

“It’s no matter. I try not to entangle myself with those down below, if I can help it. Some things are better left alone.” She was relieved, of course, that the phantom didn’t seem to be terrorizing this opera, but it also made her terribly sad to imagine him sitting up here, listening to music he didn’t even enjoy that only served to remind him of past mistakes and heartaches.

“Why are you here, then?”

He looked at her, and she was struck with a familiar feeling. She just knew he had one sarcastic eyebrow raised behind the mask. “Where else would I belong?”

“Erik…” she took a step forward, wanting only to comfort him, but he immediately moved back, looking hunted.

“Why are you in Vienna, of all places?” He asked.

Christine bit her lip. “Paris was – there was so much gossip, none of it kind, and no one was hasty to accept an actress with a ruined reputation as a Vicomtesse. It was easier to just leave and start over. Raoul had some business contacts here, and it seemed as good a place as any.”

“A ruined reputation?” Erik’s fists were clenched. “Who would dare utter such slander, or believe it?”

She shook her head. Wasn’t it obvious? “Erik, everyone heard about that last night at the opera, or some version of it. At the very least everyone knew I was at the center of the scandal, that there’d been rumors for months of the new diva acting erratic and disappearing at odd hours of the night. The way Parisians talk, it was hardly surprising that they all decided you and I were-” she stopped abruptly and colored. What was she thinking, talking like this?

“Were what?” Erik asked. For a moment she thought he was mocking her, but it seemed he genuinely hadn’t understood. And after all, what did he know of aristocrats and their penchant for scandals and intrigue and tales of debauchery? What did he know of the rules that governed society outside of an opera house? What did she know of him, or his life before her?

Christine closed her eyes, wishing she’d avoided this conversation all together, but it was too late now. “I was an unmarried woman who spent the night alone in your home many times. No one believed I went to the altar with my virtue intact.” Her cheeks were positively burning. She felt she had admitted something terrible although Erik knew better than anyone that nothing untoward had happened between them. At least, not in the traditional sense.

Somehow the lines of Erik’s shoulders and mouth had become even more tense and rigid, but it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Finally he said “And your husband did nothing to defend your honor?”

Christine sighed. “Of course he stood by me, but what could he say that anyone would believe?” She caught herself before saying _we could hardly hang the bloodstained sheet out of the chateau window._ And after all, hadn’t Raoul had his own suspicions? When it all began, he’d believed she was receiving a suitor in her dressing room, and even when it was all over she hadn’t missed the lingering uncertainty in his eyes, the questions he was too delicate and embarrassed to voice. She’d seen the relief on his face when he finally took her to bed on their wedding night, and her reactions fulfilled whatever it was he expected of an untouched woman. It had filled her with icy shame to realize that some part of him, however small, had doubted her too.

“I am sorry,” he said. Christine blinked. That wasn’t like him at all. “I did not realize that people would think-” he pulled fussily on his waistcoat and avoided her eyes. “Though I suppose that is the least of the apologies I owe you.” By this point Christine felt that her mouth must be hanging open in a distinctly unladylike way, but she didn’t care. The Erik she remembered didn’t take responsibility for his wrongdoing – at least not like this. If she had expected such things to be broached at all, it would have been with wails of his wretchedness, pleas that she would forgive him no matter how undeserving a creature he may be.

“What has happened to you?” She whispered.

Erik grimaced. “I have had time, Christine. So much time to do little but think. And after – when you left me - ” somehow Christine knew exactly what he was talking about, and her lips tingled at the memory. “I thought, if you could do something like that, be so brave and show me such mercy, well. I owed it to your memory to be honest with myself and how I thought of our – association. I have always been a monster, but to be so monstrous to the one person I - ” once again he stopped abruptly, and seemed to master himself after a long, shaky breath. “At any rate, you can imagine my surprise that you wished to see me again at all.”

“You’re not a monster,” Christine said, tears in her eyes. Erik opened his mouth to speak but she shook her head. “No, listen to me. I’ve had time to think too, and I won’t pretend that you haven’t hurt me, that you didn’t do things I should never be able to forgive. But I also know that when you let Raoul and I go, when you told me to be happy, even though it broke you, that’s when you showed the sort of man you truly are.” Christine swallowed around the lump in her throat. Frankly she’d never expected the two of them to have this conversation, much less within 10 minutes of coming to see him.

Erik smiled, but it was twisted up and sad. “Once again Christine, you waste your goodness on an unworthy subject.”

Christine felt like she was overflowing, brimming with a thousand different emotions she hadn’t allowed herself to feel. She used to imagine the things she’d say to him if they ever saw each other again, some cruel and some kind, but after a while it all hurt too much and she tried not to think of him at all. A couple tears escaped and rolled down her cheeks, and he noticed immediately.

“I’ve upset you.” He bowed his head. “You may leave, if you wish. You must know you are no captive here.”

She shook her head, swiping away her tears impatiently. “I don’t want to leave.” She paused and she heard it from what seemed like lifetimes ago, that question that had always hung between the two of them. _What do you_ want _Christine?_ And though he hadn’t asked it out loud, she answered it the only way she knew how. “I want to sing.”

And oh, how they sang. He had a grand piano in his sky high lair, and Christine didn’t even try to fathom how he’d gotten the thing up there. It didn’t matter. The moment his fingers touched ivory, led her into a warm up they’d done a thousand times, nothing else mattered. Christine was swept away, the flood of music opened inside her and carried her along and she didn’t mind a bit. It was as though no time had passed, and when he rustled up some sheet music and she was able to sight sing with some success, she caught his small smile and felt obscenely proud of herself. But still, when they paused to let her voice rest and Erik fetched her a glass of water, he said,

“You don’t sing anymore, do you?”

Christine felt herself flush. “Did I sound that bad?”

“Your voice is lovely as ever Christine, but you are quite obviously out of practice. Why?”

“Well, I’m not a singer anymore,” she hedged. “I’m the wife of an important man. I spend most of my time going to dinner parties and wearing too many petticoats.” 

Erik shook his head. “And the wife of an important man can’t afford singing lessons in one of the artistic capitals of the world?”

Christine set her glass down and wrapped her arms around herself. “I didn’t want singing lessons. It never – felt right.”

“So you decided to squander your natural born gift?”

She felt her hands move to her hips of their own accord. “And how often have you sung since we last saw each other?” Her ear may not have been as finely tuned as Erik’s, but she knew him well enough to have a pretty good guess at the answer. He was silent a moment, and Christine grinned, knowing she was right.

“Well, I suppose I should be grateful you’ve not been seeing someone inferior who would have taught you poor habits,” he said stiffly.

“Yes, I don’t imagine you’d like the idea of someone else meddling with my voice.”

Erik didn’t respond to that immediately, and as she watched him swallow she felt her own mouth go dry. She fumbled for the watch at her waist, needing a distraction, and was genuinely surprised to see how much time had gone by. “Oh! Goodness I should be getting back. I’m so sorry time got away from me.”

“So. You’re going home to your Vicomte.”

“Yes.” She raised her chin, daring him to challenge her, to try to frighten her.

“And will you be coming here again?” He swept one elegant arm to indicate his new home.

“Do you want me to?”

He hesitated only a moment before saying “yes,” and Christine was ashamed of how gratified she was to hear it.

“Then I will,” she said, sounding firmer than she felt. She tried to think, to remember her own social engagements and what Raoul had told her of his appointments during the upcoming week. Such mundane things were hard to conjure here. Finally she said, “How’s the same time, three days from now?”

“I do believe I can fit it into my busy schedule,” he said, his voice laced with irony. He gestured her towards what looked to be a bare spot on the floor, but in the dim light she’d missed the outline of a trap door that he lifted to reveal a steep, narrow staircase, lit sparsely by gas lamps. “This will take you directly to the ground floor, near the main entrance. Do take care who sees you when you emerge from behind the tapestry at the bottom. This staircase is known only to me.” She nodded, overwhelmed with the enormity of what he had just trusted her with. She could have police here this very night, if she chose. There didn’t seem to be anything left to say, so she approached the trap door and began to descend as he held it open for her.

“Christine,” he said when she was almost out of sight, so softly she almost missed it.

“Yes?” She had to crane her head up to meet his strange orange eyes. 

“Will you think of me, when you are in your husband’s fine house tonight?”

She should have corrected him; told him it was her house too, told him he was being inappropriate. But all she said was, “Yes, I’m afraid I will.”


	3. Chapter 3

When Christine finally did make it back to their estate, it was later than she’d intended, and she headed straight to her rooms to change for dinner. The whole formality seemed silly to Christine, especially as her maid reached to give her an entirely different hairstyle than the one she’d arranged that morning, and besides Raoul would be home any minute. “Please, it’s fine how it is.” Maria looked at her blankly, and Christine realized she’d been so flustered she’d spoken in French without noticing. She reminded herself where she was, _when_ she was, and repeated the request in German. 

“As you wish,” Maria said, clearly not liking to be rushed in her work. But after all Christine would only be dining with her husband, who had seen her with her unruly curls loose, wearing an old worn nightgown, countless times. What difference did it make? Christine often thought that owning so many different clothes and fripperies turned out to be more troublesome than the days when she had no money and a handful of simple dresses to her name, but then she would immediately feel ungrateful. 

The moment Maria was done with the laces at her back, Christine said, “Thank you, I can manage the rest on my own.” She pulled on her outer garments quickly, and only paused long enough to look herself in the mirror and think _You will behave normally at dinner. You won’t be jumpy and flustered and ruin everything before it’s properly begun._ But there was nothing proper about what she’d been up to all day, and she felt like the worst sort of actress as she rushed down the stairs to meet Raoul just as he came in, and a smile sprang to her lips all too easily. But that’s what she was, truly, wasn’t it? An actress, lowborn before that, with music and theater in her blood. If she’d learned anything today, it was that even the finest silks and biggest jewels couldn’t keep Christine Daae’s true nature hidden forever. And as she watched Raoul across the table at dinner, took comfort in all the little habits she had grown used to and fond of, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him, that such a man had had the misfortune to choose a woman like her as his wife.

He wanted her that night, following her to her rooms with a sheepish, questioning look that blossomed into a grin when she nodded her answer. Christine hoped it would help, to have his comforting weight above her, pressing her into the mattress while he looked at her like she was a goddess. Help to remind her who she was, _whose_ she was. And it did, for a while. It was hard to feel like too terrible of a wife, when he looked so thoroughly pleased. But when they were done and his barely-there snores began to fill the room, her mind still drifted back to her singing lesson. 

If anything else, or rather, singing with any other teacher, had made her so happy, she knew Raoul would let her go with a blessing and a smile. But he would never understand this. How could he, when she barely did herself? Why did she have to go dredging up her past, sinking further in now that it had found her? Why couldn’t this be enough, being a wife to a wonderful man who saw her every want and need looked after? Why couldn’t she just go to normal singing lessons, if singing was what she needed so badly? But the moment she pictured it, some overpaid teacher treating singing as a _hobby,_ something to occupy a bored aristocrat who fancied herself a soprano, she knew it would never work. No one would push her, would share duets the way Erik did with his unearthly voice, would treat her as a serious artist. And it would be worse than nothing at all. 

She huffed an annoyed sigh and turned her back to Raoul, envying his easy sleep. Here she was after all, thinking of Erik in her husband’s house just as he had predicted. She wondered if he would have as much trouble finding sleep tonight, or if he would even try at all. She let herself wonder, for just a moment before she snuffed the thought out, if he was thinking of her.

It felt as though Christine had only just fallen asleep when sunlight was streaming through the windows and Raoul was waking her with a kiss on the cheek. She groaned her displeasure and turned her face into the pillow, and she heard Raoul laugh softly beside her. “Sleeping in this morning?” He guessed. 

She mumbled confirmation into her pillow, and he ran an affectionate hand through her hair before climbing out of her bed. Though still half asleep, she had the presence of mind to call, “Remember, the Werner’s are coming to dinner tonight.”

“Thank you, I would have quite forgotten.”

_I know_ Christine thought, before drifting back to sleep.

The rest of her day would have been unremarkable, except that she found her head full of music as she went about her tasks. Even making sure everything was prepared for their dinner guests, which was usually an odious chore for Christine since she still felt out of place giving anyone orders, seemed lighter and easier when half of her mind was occupied with reviewing Erik’s critique’s to ensure she was improved at her next lesson. She hadn’t even realized she’d been singing as she arranged fresh flowers on the dining table until their cook poked her head in and said “Oh! Pardon me, Herrin, we were just wondering who was singing.” Christine felt her cheeks go pink, as though she’d been caught in the act. “We had no idea our mistress had such a lovely voice.”

“Oh, thank you. Goodness I didn’t realize I was singing loud enough to be heard in the kitchens. I hope it hasn’t been disturbing.”

“Disturbing? Oh my no not at all.” The cook’s kindly old face crinkled up in a smile. “We’ve felt like right lords and ladies, having a day at the opera.” Christine grinned at that, and gave a mock stage curtsey. “So sorry to have interrupted you, mistress. I’d never have barged in if I knew it was you.”

“Please, no apologies needed” Christine sighed. They’d been so close, to having an almost normal conversation. 

“Well I’d best get back. Everyone downstairs will have my head if they think I stopped the singing.” 

Once the cook was gone, Christine only hesitated a moment before restarting her stanza. She’d never been one to deny an adoring audience.

Dinner with the Werner’s had become a weekly affair for Raoul and Christine. They lived in the next closest estate and were of similar ages, so it seemed only natural for them to socialize often. Christine was only half following the conversation, more interested in her dessert if she was being honest, when Liesel Werner said, “So, it seems the two of you have been hiding something from us. We _saw_ you at the Opera Christine.”

Christine froze with her fork halfway to her mouth, panic flooding her system.

“Of course I’m sure you were there too Raoul,” Liesel continued with a laugh. “But I can’t be blamed for not noticing one more gentleman in a black top hat while Christine was turning heads in that gorgeous mint gown.” Christine exhaled sharply and set her fork down with a clatter. They were talking about the night she and Raoul were at the Opera together, not the following day when she’d snuck in alone. Liesel was still talking, and Christine forced herself to follow the conversation. “Well you can imagine how positively _affronted_ Ralf and I were, after all the times we’ve invited you to our box and you’ve said you don’t care for the opera.”

Raoul was looking at Christine with concern, and she wasn’t sure if it was just because of the sensitive subject matter or if she was acting strangely. Christine met Liesel’s gaze and forced a laugh. “In truth I’ve always loved operas, but Raoul can’t stand them.” That wasn’t _exactly_ the truth, but it wasn’t so far off either. “Well, the other night I told him enough was enough, it was time for him to take his wife to the Opera.”

Ralf chortled and said “and what did you have to say to that?”

“Well you said it yourself Liesel,” Raoul began. “When one’s beautiful wife is in a dress like _that_ and demanding to be taken out on the town, there’s little a reasonable husband can say besides ‘of course, my love.’” 

Christine shot Raoul a real smile, grateful he was playing along with her white lie. 

“And what did you think?” Liesel prompted. “Did you find it as abhorrent as you expected?”

“Actually no,” Raoul said. “The Vienna Opera must be superior to what we saw in Paris.” Christine had to bite her tongue at that. “I had a rather nice time. Didn’t you, _ma chere?_ ”

“Yes, it was lovely” Christine agreed quickly.

“Well in that case the two of you must accompany us when we go next week,” Liesel said. “We absolutely won’t take no for an answer, will we dear?” 

Ralf shook his head and said, “We can suffer the boredom together, at least, while we look at our pretty wives.”

“Well, we can hardly turn down such an offer,” Raoul said, but he was looking at Christine uncertainly. She gave him the smallest of nods. There was little that opera house could do to her now that it had not already done. “We’d be delighted.”

“Excellent,” Liesel clapped her hands together, and the subject was dropped as quickly as it had come up. Christine was grateful no one had seemed to notice that she’d all but fainted when Liesel had first spoken of seeing her at the opera. Her heart was still hammering in her ears, and she resolved to be dropped off down the street next time she approached the _Hofoper_ alone.


	4. Chapter 4

Time seemed to drag endlessly until her next lesson with Erik, but finally the day arrived, and Raoul left in the late afternoon and reminded Christine he’d be staying out for dinner at his gentlemen’s club, as though she hadn’t been planning her whole life around that fact. She barely waited for his carriage to trundle off down the street before she was ordering her own. This time she’d resolved to be smarter, and had the driver drop her at a hat shop a few minutes walk from the opera. She even hurried in and bought the first hat she saw that wasn’t completely unfortunate, then walked out wearing her new purchase and strolled in the direction of more shops until her driver was out of sight. With any luck, when she finally returned later he’d think she had just gotten carried away shopping. She entered the Opera through the front this time, and pretended to study the posters for upcoming shows until she was sure no one was paying her any attention, and she slipped behind the tapestry to ascend Erik’s hidden staircase. Nerves fluttered in her stomach as she climbed the many stairs, and she fussed with her new hat, hoping it didn’t look completely foolish on her. 

She knocked when she reached the trap door, and it opened above her immediately, with Erik’s hand reaching down to help her climb out. She took it, and was forcefully reminded of the first time he had brought her down to his lair. They were both wearing gloves now, but that night the feeling of skin on skin had been electrifying as he’d led her further and further underground. Now, he lifted her up into lush, candlelit surroundings, and she emerged fully to stand face to face with him. Somehow she’d forgotten just how tall Erik was. “Good afternoon,” he said, looking down at her with an expression that was hard to read.

“Good afternoon,” she answered, feeling nervous and awkward despite everything they’d shared the last time she was here. He was still looking down at her, and she still hadn’t moved away.

Finally Erik broke the silence by saying, “Is that a new hat?”

“Oh yes, how did you know?”

“There’s still some wrapping paper stuck to the top.”

Christine felt herself go red and immediately reached up to feel for the offending paper and remove it. “How embarrassing,” she sighed. “I promise I don’t usually go around looking quite such a mess, but I only just bought this hat on the way here as an alibi for coming into town.”

“I wasn’t aware you were committing a crime,” Erik said lightly, finally stepping aside so she could move further into his home.

“Of course I’m not,” she huffed. “Just, if Raoul was to hear I took the carriage, or if someone was to see me out-”

“Of course, you can’t let your husband or half of Vienna know you’re consorting with a monster.”

“Stop that,” Christine said. “You know I would never say, or think, such a thing. It’s just that Raoul wouldn’t understand.”

Erik barked a laugh that had no humor in it. “No, I do believe I am familiar with his method of ‘understanding.’ He’d have police swarming my home in no time, just as he has before, and truly, who could blame him? It’s probably what you should do, Christine.”

She shook her head. “But you trusted me not to.”

“Yes, I did.” He said it as though he was making some terrible confession.

“Have I come at a bad time?” She ventured uncertainly. She didn’t know how to handle this new Erik, who seemed to have let sadness consume him completely when before there had been anger and perhaps a tiny sliver of hope.

He turned his back to her and placed a steadying hand on the piano. “I don’t deserve your visits, or your kindness. _I_ don’t understand why you’ve come again.”

Christine sighed, staring at the back of his head, wishing she could see through it to his thoughts. If he were any other friend she’d place a hand on his shoulder, speak soft words of comfort, but she knew he would almost certainly flinch away from such a gesture. “Why must it be a question of deserving?” She asked. “If it brings both of us joy, to sing together, as I think it does, then where’s the harm in that?” She felt like a coward, always steering them back to singing, but it seemed like safer ground than anywhere else this conversation could lead them.

“Truly it makes you happy, to sing with me?” He’d turned to face her again, watching her face as she answered.

“Of course it does.” She closed her eyes. “Your voice is still my favorite sound in the world.” And why did that feel like she was admitting something secret and intimate? If he didn’t think highly of anything else about himself, Christine knew that Erik was well aware his singing was beyond compare. “Does it upset you, for me to come here?”

“No, absolutely not. You are…” He clamped his mouth shut and shook his head. “It is just, so _much_ after nothing for years.”

Christine nodded, her throat feeling constricted. “I understand.” If his feelings were anything like hers, standing in this room with him, with their history sitting between them, was like opening floodgates after forcing them closed for so long, and it was hard to pick the good from the bad as she was carried away by the tide. But still, she knew she’d rather be here than not.

“Would you like me to sing to you, before we begin our lesson?” He offered softly, and it was like he was making amends though Christine was not sure he needed to.

“Yes, I would like nothing better.” He gestured her towards a chaise in front of the piano, and he took his seat at the bench. The moment his fingers touched ivory, she closed her eyes, not wanting to miss a sound.

She could only describe the song he’d chosen as…safe. Light, cheerful, and a little jarring in tone after the conversation they’d just had. But she understood why he hadn’t chosen anything too somber or romantic. It was an attempt to keep the precarious peace they were building. And the moment his voice came in, the song itself hardly mattered. Christine felt her muscles loosen from head to toe and her chest expand as she breathed deeper. She was back where she belonged, content and invigorated at the same time. She didn’t even realize her lips had parted until Erik finally stopped singing and she came back to herself. “Thank you,” she said, fluttering her eyes open.

Erik nodded and gestured for her to stand, moving into a warm up without speaking. Christine found her feet and her voice, making sure to apply the techniques they’d discussed during their last lesson. After they’d moved through a few songs, Erik looked at her with what she hoped was approval and said, “you’ve been practicing.”

“Yes,” she grinned. “The kitchen staff even gave me a standing ovation the other day.”

He tilted his head. “Hardly the audience you are accustomed to.

Christine shrugged. “A diva takes what she can get.” She saw the most fleeting of smiles pass over his face before he met her eyes.

“Don’t you miss the opera?”

“I’m at the opera right now,” she teased. He didn’t look impressed, and she sighed. “Of course I miss performing. There’s nothing like it. But that part of my life is over now. No one in my current circle can ever even know I was once a chorus girl.”

“It must be lovely to belong to such a glamorous and open minded circle,” he said with more than a little bitterness.

“Well if you’d like to look down on them, well, us, I suppose, quite literally, I’ll be attending the opera in a few days.” 

Erik shook his head. “I hardly have my own box here. You’ve heard the cast. It’s not worth it.”

“So you never come down to listen?”

“Quite rarely.” 

“Oh.” Christine didn’t quite know why she was disappointed. “I just thought it might be nice, to discuss the show with someone who actually knows what they’re talking about.”

He gave her a piercing look. “You want me to attend?”

“Only if you want to.” It would just be…strange, to know she was in his home without either of them acknowledging the other’s presence. 

“Then I assume you’ve saved a seat for me amongst your other high society friends?”

Christine felt her mouth fall open. “Oh Erik, I’m sorry, I didn’t think-”

He smiled, but the expression wasn’t kind. “I’m joking, Christine.” But in that moment, Christine knew the terrible truth that some part of him was not. A voice from another lifetime drifted through her mind, _I want to have a wife like everyone else, and to take her out on Sundays._ What was she doing here? What was she doing to this poor man? “I know what I am. A ghost in the shadows. A shameful secret.”

“ _No._ ” Christine insisted. “I’m not ashamed of you, I’m-” what was she, then? Ashamed of herself, that was the truth of it. For falling so easily back into his spell, for not being satisfied with a fairy tale life no chorus girl could ever dream of. For _wanting_ , always, even if she didn’t know what. She shook her head. “I’m being a fool. Please, forget I mentioned it.”

Erik pinned her with a look. “If you want me to be there, then I will.”

“Only if you wish to come.” Christine’s voice was barely above a whisper.

He exhaled harshly, as though he had lost some fight with himself. “It would be nice, to actually see a performance again instead of just hearing it, though I’m sure it will be found wanting without you on stage.”

Christine’s face burned, and she could conjure no response to that.

“But, enough distractions.” He squared his shoulders and returned his gaze to the sheet music on the piano, though Christine was sure he didn’t need it. “You’ve not nearly had a proper lesson yet.”

“That’s true, you’ve hardly reprimanded me once.” She caught his eye, needing to know that they were on good terms, or what passed for good terms between them, at least.

“Well, I was hoping you’d correct your frame without having to be told, but alas you have not.” No one else in the world would have been able to detect the warmth, dare she even say fondness, running underneath the chilly statement, but Christine heard it. She knew his voice better than anything. She rolled back her shoulders, elongated her neck, and hit her entrance perfectly when he began to play. She’d be damned if she didn’t do something right today.


	5. Chapter 5

The night of the opera approached quickly, and Christine couldn’t quite say why she was jangling with nerves, or why she’d purchased a new dress for the occasion. She was afraid she had done something wrong by mentioning the plans to Erik, but she felt it would have been equally strange not to tell him, to risk taking him by surprise once again in his own opera house. Not, of course, that it was actually _his,_ she reminded herself. Oh, bother. It wasn’t as though etiquette books had a section on attending the opera with one’s husband while one’s current teacher and former – admirer, happened to live in said opera. There was no right answer to this, at least not one that didn’t involve cutting off all contact with Erik, which she clearly wasn’t going to do, so she figured she might as well try and enjoy the night. When she finally descended the stairs of her home, her maid having taken even longer with Christine’s appearance than usual, she was met with an admiring, almost awed look from Raoul that made her go a pleasant shade of pink. She had chosen a deep crimson gown for this evening, which she knew complimented her pale skin and dark curls well. She felt squeezed half to death in the especially tight corset that accompanied this dress, but the effect was, evidently, worthwhile. 

“How do you grow more beautiful by the day?” Raoul asked, extending his arm for her.

Christine grinned. “You are, perhaps, a little biased my dear.”

Raoul shook his head. “Impossible.”

They met Liesel and Ralf at the main entrance of the Opera, much grander of course than the one around back, and followed them to their private box. Liesel fawned over Christine’s new gown and Christine heard herself respond with something complimentary about the lace on Liesel’s gloves, but the moment she took her seat, Christine was thoroughly distracted. There was a prickling sensation on the back of her neck, like she was being watched, but there was just as good a chance of the feeling being a product of her imagination, rather than the actual presence of Erik’s gaze. She wasn’t left in suspense for long though. As soon as Liesel turned to say something to Ralf, and Raoul was busy giving his drink order to an attendant, the faintest whisper in her ear said, “It is a lovely gown. Lovelier still, on you.” Christine whipped around, but of course, she knew who had spoken and she hadn’t expected to actually see him. She was familiar with his uncanny ability to throw his voice but still, he must have been quite close to pull that off. She shivered, but the sensation wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Raoul noticed and his hand was immediately on her shoulder, his thumb brushing the skin between her sleeve and the top of her glove.

“Is everything allright?” He asked in a low voice.

She nodded quickly, having an unpleasant urge to shake Raoul’s hand off. It wasn’t an especially intimate touch, but she knew to Erik it would mean – well she wasn’t sure exactly what it would mean, but she couldn’t imagine it would be good. “I am perfectly fine, just caught a little chill,” she told Raoul. It was the wrong thing to say, because he immediately reached across her shoulders and rubbed her other arm in a kind attempt to warm her up. She felt sick at the thought that it might look like she was willfully tormenting Erik. It wasn’t that she assumed he still harbored the same feelings for her that he once did. Surely, her abandonment of him and marriage to another must have snuffed out that flame. But it was unlikely he’d become any less achingly lonely, and she could only imagine that seeing commonplace affection between any husband and wife, but especially with Christine, someone he had once professed his love to, must be torturous to him. And she’d practically begged Erik to be here, watching the opera “with” her. Oh dear. 

“Come, you’ll rumple my sleeve,” she said, trying to sound lighthearted as she rolled her shoulder to illustrate. Raoul removed his hand immediately, and she thought she caught a look of hurt cross his face before the house lights mercifully dimmed. Christine squeezed her eyes shut a moment, wishing she’d never come at all. But then the familiar buzz of the orchestra warming up reached her ears, and no matter what else was happening, she couldn’t suppress the familiar excitement of knowing that a show was about to begin. There was a certain magic in any musical performance that Christine knew she would never tire of. She hoped, more for Erik’s sake than her own, that tonight’s show would be better than the last one had been.

When intermission arrived, Liesel wanted to take a turn around the lobby and see who else had come out tonight, and Christine couldn’t think of a reason to say no. Of course everyone in attendance had the same idea, after all the main point of going to the Opera for most of the aristocracy was to see and be seen. So when a hand grasped Christine’s as she reached the bottom of the main stairs in the lobby, she assumed someone had accidentally come too close in the crush of bodies and thought nothing of it. But then the hand tugged softly on hers, and she looked down to see a gentleman’s arm in a crisp black suit extending out of what appeared to be a closet under the staircase. She looked around, but a few people with blessedly large hats had moved between Christine and Liesel, and no one else was paying her any mind, so she followed the arm and quickly closed the closet door behind her. It was Erik of course, holding a lamp that glinted off of silver trays and cutlery stored in the cupboard, which had just enough room for the two of them to stand. 

“Well, hello,” Christine said, head craning up to see what she could of his face.

“Good evening,” Erik returned. “I apologize – that is, I hope you don’t mind, me pulling you in here in such a way. I just couldn’t think how else-”

Christine shook her head, cutting him off before he could stumble farther down a path of self-deprecation. “Not at all, I’m glad you thought of it.” There was a beat of silence, and Christine felt strangely exposed, suddenly unsure why she’d let the woman in the dress shop persuade her into a slightly daring neckline.

Mercifully, Erik broke the silence by saying, “why must the Germans always insist on singing the Italian operas, and the Italians always insist on singing the German ones, while none of them ever take the time to learn proper pronunciation?” 

Christine grinned. “You’d think they could at least learn the right accents for the words they’re singing. Though perhaps I shouldn’t cast aspersions, as I’ve been here three years and I know my German still sounds like rubbish.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Erik replied in, of course, perfectly pronounced German.

“Ah, but it is,” she replied in her own disgraceful German. She realized it was the first time they’d spoken the language with each other. She switched back to French to say “But what did you think of the singing itself?” It just felt strange to talk to him any other way.

She watched his eyes narrow as he considered. “The new Tenor is an improvement, but on the whole mostly disappointing. Technically, acceptable, but uninspired. And you?”

Christine nodded. “Honestly, it sounded like there might be more talent in the chorus than the main singers, but of course they almost never promote unknown talent.” Christine bit her lip, realizing that as usual she’d put her foot squarely in her mouth. 

Erik inspected some imaginary lint on his glove and said “I have heard of certain cases where exceptions were made.”

Christine laughed, and something in her chest loosened. She’d never thought she’d be able to think of the strange affairs of the Opera Ghost, much less talk about them, with any lightness. “Thank you,” Christine said, “for coming tonight, I mean, and finding a chance to talk with me. 

“But of course. One can hardly deny the request of a Vicomtesse. And what greater honor could there be than to slink and hide in the back of a private box while said Vicomtesse cavorts with her friends and husband?” Christine had wondered when and if they’d get around to Raoul. But she refused to apologize for being married, or for not keeping a five-foot distance between herself and her husband. If she owed anyone an apology in all of this, it was Raoul himself.

Christine sighed. “Perhaps it was…insensitive for me to ask you to come. You do not have to stay.”

“No, it has been, well, perhaps enjoyable is the wrong word given the talent on display, but I am glad I came.” He nodded, seeming to convince himself. “A change of scenery is always worth while, even if I’ve only descended a few flights of stairs.”

“Well, good then,” Christine smiled. _You must get so lonely_ she thought, but she knew if she voiced her concern he’d interpret it as pity and scorn.

After a beat of silence, Erik said “You should probably return, before you are missed.”

“I suppose so,” she agreed. “Thank you. And if I don’t see you again, I hope the rest of your evening is a happy one.” She began to reach out to press his hand in farewell, but thought better of it at the last moment and fixed her hair instead.

Erik just nodded and said “You as well, Christine.” She was on her way out when he added, so low she knew she wasn’t meant to hear it, “you look like a dream tonight.” She almost turned around at that, but didn’t have a clue how she’d answer, so she shut the door and merged back into the crowd, already wondering if she’d heard correctly.


	6. Chapter 6

Christine began to spend more and more time in Erik’s home – essentially any time Raoul was away on business – and there were only so many hours they could maintain the pretence of singing lessons before Erik would cut them off to prevent overtaxing her voice. Christine knew she should leave at such moments, but the thought of going to sit in her large house alone, or making a social call where she would have to be on constant guard against revealing her low breeding or some scandalous aspect of her past, was never very appealing. So instead she would linger, hoping that if it bothered Erik he’d be honest and let her know. It was on such an evening, when Christine was curled up with a book she’d found in Erik’s extensive library, and Erik was at his piano fiddling around with a melody and recording the results on staff paper in his messy scrawl, that Christine looked up and asked “Do you think I could ever do that?”

Erik blinked, taking a moment to come back to himself, and she felt guilty for interrupting. “What, play the piano?” he asked. “Certainly. You once told me your father taught you the basics when you were young, and I’m sure the skills would return quickly even if you’ve forgotten. I could always give you a refresher, if you’d like.”

Christine shook her head. “No, I’ve actually been puttering about on the piano at home. If nothing else I can play with both hands at the same time again.” She held up her hands and wiggled her fingers to demonstrate. “I meant – do you think I could ever compose?”

Erik tilted his head. “I never knew you had an interest in it.”

Christine shrugged. “I don’t know, I’ve always been so fascinated, watching my father, or you, invent new music out of thin air. And every once in a while I’ll get a snatch of something that’s almost an original tune I think, but I’ve never quite known where to go from there. But I suppose it takes more than that to be a composer.”

“Certainly I think you could compose,” Erik said without hesitation. “It’s a skill that can be cultivated and practiced like anything else, and obviously you’ve shown proficiency with every aspect of music you’ve ever attempted.” Christine flushed at that. She knew Erik didn’t bestow praise or flattery unless he truly believed it had been earned.

“Thank you,” she breathed. “Could you, maybe, show me some time? If you don’t mind, of course. I know I already take up a dreadful amount of your time with singing lessons.”

“Of course,” he said, and gestured her towards the space next to him on the piano bench. “There’s no time like the present.”

“Oh I don’t want to interrupt, I know you were in the middle of something.”

“I thought I could continue, and explain my process as I go.” Erik glanced down at the bench next to him, and suddenly looked doubtful. “Unless, of course, if you’d prefer to learn some other way, I completely understand.”

“No, that sounds perfect,” Christine said at once. She knew he interpreted almost any behavior from her as disgust, and she hated that he still thought her so weak and unkind after all this time. She had no qualms about sitting next to him, until she had actually done so and his leg was swamped in her skirts. Then she was afraid that she might be making him uncomfortable with her proximity, not the other way around. “Sorry,” she said, hastily trying to rearrange her gown and feeling mortified when her hand brushed his thigh in the process. “Trains become so silly when one isn’t standing,” she rambled.

“No matter,” he said faintly. “Please, ah, make yourself comfortable.” He’d moved to the very edge of his end of the bench, which didn’t make her feel any better. She got herself situated as best she could, and turned to him with a determined smile. One of them had to retain some semblance of normal social interaction.

“Well then, shall we begin?” Christine prompted. She could see his eyes so clearly from here, as well as the barest edge of sickly yellow skin around them before the mask began. A vivid image of his unmasked face rose unbidden in her mind, and she was surprised to find she didn’t feel scared or disturbed at the thought. Truly it was just sad, that he’d been dealt such an unfair hand, that he’d spent his whole life hiding something that he couldn’t control. His eyes roamed her face for a moment before he turned back to his staff paper and began gesturing at the measures he’d already written out. She watched his hands as he spoke, long and elegant whether they were on the keys of a piano or holding a fountain pen, and thought that there were so many beautiful parts of this man besides his voice, but he’d never believe her even if she was ever brave or foolish enough to tell him so.

She realized that he’d been speaking, explaining the song he was currently writing to her, and she rushed to give him her full attention.

“So- yes, I suppose if we’re saying the basic tune is the spine of the piece, then the bass clef, the extra chords and embellishments, are like the heart and lungs and everything else that make up a living thing. Essential, but also useless without the underlying skeleton. Does that make sense?”

Christine nodded. “It does, although I can’t imagine how I’m to make any of that happen, to construct a heart from nothing.” She paused and asked “You’ve never explained this to anyone before, have you? I mean, the way you look at music when you’re writing it, how it feels to you.”

Erik frowned. “No, I suppose I haven’t.”

“Thank you, for sharing it with me.”

He nodded. “Of course. It is my pleasure.”

Christine didn’t know what to say to that, so she looked back to his scrawled music. Suddenly she had an intense urge to be the first person besides him to play it, and as the tune was still simple at this stage she thought she could manage to sight-read. She reached for the keys at the same time as Erik, and their fingers brushed for just a moment, pressing down together into a discordant chord. Something fluttered in Christine’s stomach, and both of them pulled their hands back like they’d been burned. Erik was already stumbling through some apology, but once again she wasn’t listening, too frustrated with herself. The trouble was, she wasn’t the young blushing virgin she’d been when she and Erik had first met, when he’d trained her for her debut. Now she had a name for this feeling that she’d been trying to shy away from for so long. She was attracted to him, to this man with a death’s head and an angel’s voice. It felt blasphemous to even think it, like she’d been unfaithful to her husband even though an accidental brush of fingers was the most she and Erik had ever touched. _Except for one time._ Unbidden her mind was dragged back to the kiss that had earned her freedom, the one she’d tried to tell herself time and again had only been the result of fear and compassion. But now she knew what a kiss born of wanting felt like, what else it could lead to, and though the way she was physically drawn to Erik felt so different from her attraction to Raoul, there were enough similarities that she couldn’t deny it.

“Christine?” She’d been silent too long as a realization that should have been plain as day bowled her over.

“Yes?” She looked around, locked her gaze on his luminous orange eyes before looking back into her lap.

“Are you allright? It’s my hands – I know they are cold, but I play better without gloves. I’m sorry if it upset you.”

Christine almost let loose a mad laugh, almost told him she’d felt nothing but heat, but she shook her head and clamped her mouth shut until she was sure she’d mastered herself. “I’m not upset,” she said, and it was only half a lie. “I just – I should have asked, before playing your piece. It was presumptuous of me. I apologize.” Christine had enough practice reading Erik’s eyes and the twist of his lips to see that he was confused.

“No apologies needed. Be my guest.” He gestured for her to play and stood, putting a healthy amount of distance between the two of them. Christine was both relieved and sorry for the loss, and she hated herself bitterly for both feelings.

She fumbled through what he’d written so far, and it was so desperately sad and tender she had to fight back tears she wouldn’t be able to explain. She stopped abruptly and took a deep breath, instinctually drawing from her diaphragm. “It’s quite lovely,” she said, and was horrified to hear her voice was choked with emotion. 

“Are you feeling well?” Erik asked, sounding truly concerned.

“No, I don’t think I am.” That at least was the truth. “Perhaps it is time for me to leave.”

“What seems to be wrong? Do you need assistance getting home?”

She shook her head quickly. “No, thank you, I have a carriage waiting. I’ll be right as rain after some rest.” She tried for a smile and knew it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Allright, if you’re sure.” Erik sounded doubtful. “Shall I see you Wednesday then, as we discussed?”

The refusal was on the tip of her tongue. It was the right thing to do, given her ill-timed epiphany. But there was cautious hope in his voice, and she _wanted_ to try her hand at composing, and she knew it would be impossible at home, constantly surrounded by eyes and ears that wouldn’t understand. Was it so terrible to have a place that was hers? Was it really a violation of her marriage, to want something that she had no intention of taking? If Eve had only held the apple, and never bitten in to the crisp flesh, would she still have been damned? “Yes, Wednesday sounds perfect” she said before she was aware she’d come to a decision. If she was being honest with herself, she’d left the garden the moment she’d stepped through a mirror in an opera house far from here.


	7. Chapter 7

She went straight to bed when she got home, and pretended to be asleep when Raoul came in to check on her. It was far earlier than she usually went to bed, but she’d lie about some minor ailment in the morning and her sweet trusting husband would believe her. Right now she was afraid to face him, afraid the scalding, shameful truth would somehow show on her face. She told herself that today had not changed anything, that she was still telling one unforgivable lie of omission but in the rest of her marriage she was true, but it was cold comfort. The single lie spiraled out into so many little ones, and the deeper she was pulled into Erik’s orbit the more tangled it would all become. She imagined stopping, never seeing him again, but the thought of returning to the cold, grey, music-less existence she’d led for the last three years was unfathomable to her. She’d rather feel guilty and split in two than go back to a time when every emotion and experience was so dull and faint that she hardly noticed as they went by. It seemed she was doomed to always feel too little or too much, and if she had to choose it would be the overflow of emotion. After all, wasn’t that what led to great opera?

A song began to take form for Christine over the next few days. It was slow going, plucking it out on their pianoforte with one finger, sending a servant out for staff paper and narrowing her eyes to center tentative notes on the thin lines, crossing them out more often than not. She found herself hiding this from Raoul too, embarrassed at her clumsy attempts, and afraid it would somehow reveal everything else if he asked questions. She always had a book of music on hand so she could cover her own composition if Raoul entered the room. But still, he noticed that she was no longer avoiding music like the plague, and when they were at a dinner party and the ladies began to stand and sing a song or two, he nudged her shoulder and said “wouldn’t you like to perform something?” Christine’s eyes flicked between Ralf and Liesel’s piano and the handful of people scattered around the room, few of them attending the lady who was currently singing. Still though, it was an audience in some sense, and Christine couldn’t deny that the idea was appealing. She worried for a moment, that Raoul would be able to tell she’d been taking lessons, but then she realized how laughable an idea that was. Her husband would never be able to tell the difference between a trained or untrained voice, and at any rate he’d only ever heard her voice at its height. 

“Perhaps I shall,” she decided. The woman at the piano finished her song, and Raoul gestured her forward with an encouraging grin. She found herself nervous, suddenly, as she stood and made her way towards the piano at the center of the room. A few pairs of eyes followed her, and she wondered if she was making a mistake, exposing such an intimate part of herself in mixed, highborn company.

“I didn’t know you played!” Liesel called as Christine finally took her seat on the bench. A few more people looked over.

“Well, I’m more of a singer than a pianist, to be honest,” Christine answered.

“Oh how lovely.” Liesel said. “Would you sing us something in French?”

Christine nodded, casting about for something that fit the bill, with French lyrics and music simple enough for her to play with confidence. She settled on one of the songs Erik had started her on when they first renewed their lessons in Vienna. The tune and words were certainly seared into her memory, and she’d found herself playing it at home recently enough that she thought she’d be all right with the fingering. She took a deep breath and began, resisting the urge to watch her fingers, hearing Erik’s voice in the back of her head admonishing her to lift her chin so that she could project properly. She picked a spot on the wall to focus on, feeling ridiculously intimidated by a few dozen stares given she used to sing at the top of her lungs to an audience of thousands. Her vocal entrance came, and she sailed smoothly into it, immediately gaining confidence when she found that she was in good voice today. She realized she’d made a lot of progress since going back to her lessons with Erik, because the song felt easy now and she was able to enjoy the performance, sinking into each note, all of which were comfortably within her range. Too soon it was over and she blinked, coming back to herself. There was a light scattering of applause, and Liesel said “Oh that was _wonderful_ Christine! I cannot believe you have never sung for us before.”

“Thank you, you’re far too kind,” Christine demurred.

“Really, it was almost like listening to a professional diva,” Liesel said, and Christine caught Raoul’s eye. He winked and she was hit with a vivid picture of him as a younger man, cheering her name from a private box as she looked up from the stage. She remembered feeling scared for him then, not sure what Erik’s limits were, what he might do to Raoul. Now she wondered what she would do to her husband, as she could only choose between lying to him for the rest of their lives, or hurting him deeply, perhaps irrevocably. She shook her head and smiled back at him, quickly getting up from the piano. It was just a dinner party, not a sold out performance, and there were no dangers lurking in the shadows. A woman could hold many things in her heart without letting them loose upon the world, couldn’t she? She returned to Raoul’s side and accepted his praise with grace, planting an impulsive kiss on his cheek.

“Thank you for encouraging me to get up there,” she said softly as the conversations around them moved on. “It felt good to sing for people again.”

“I am glad,” Raoul said earnestly. “I haven’t seen your face light up like that in so long. It was like watching you blossom.”

Christine tilted her head, thinking _had I really wilted so much?_ “You are very sweet, and I am very lucky,” she said instead, meaning every word.


	8. Chapter 8

Christine didn’t want to admit it, but she was stuck. The song she was trying to write wasn’t taking shape on paper nearly the way she wanted it to, the way she heard it in her head, and she didn’t know how to bridge the difference. She dithered about bringing it to Erik for his opinion. It just felt so personal, and embarrassing, and paltry when compared to all of the amazing things Erik had composed. But she thought she could trust him, to be gentle with her, or at least gentle enough. She had the sense he would know the right thing to say. So the next time she was scheduled to see him, she took her song along, rolling it up and tying it with a red ribbon. She tapped the tube in her palm nervously as she sat in the carriage, and as usual she had her footman drop her about a ten-minute’s walk away from the Opera. As she walked, she was overtaken with the aching wish that she could show her song to her father. She wondered if he’d be proud of her, her myriad accomplishments and failures, and worried that he would not. As if on cue, the sky opened up above her, drenching Christine in ice-cold rain. It hadn’t looked like rain when she left, so she found herself without an umbrella or even a hat. Her first thought was for her song, the only copy clutched in her hand in fragile paper and ink. She took a furtive look around, and stuffed it down her bodice in a distinctly unlady-like fashion, hoping the stiff boning of her corset would protect it. By the time she made it to the Opera she was drenched and shivering, and she felt she sloshed more than walked up all the stairs to Erik’s chamber. She knocked on the trap door as usual, and hurried the rest of the way up into his home. 

“Christine, goodness!” Erik exclaimed, taking in the sight of her. She knew she must look a fright, her hair a sodden mass around her shoulders, her smart peach ensemble sopping and heavy. She remembered her song and fished it out of her bodice unceremoniously, her fear about its condition overtaking thoughts of decorum. It came apart in her hands, the drenched parchment shredding no matter how careful she tried to be, and suddenly it was all too much. It felt like a sign, that all her hours of work, every choice she’d made and leap she’d taken of late, was for nothing, and she felt tears begin to roll down her face, shaking with sobs as well as the cold now. “Oh Christine,” Erik said, so softly. “Come,” he gestured her towards an armchair in front of an unlit fireplace. Some hazy part of her wondered why he didn’t already have a fire going on such a chilly day. She looked at the finely upholstered armchair and her drenched skirts and protested

“Oh no, I’ll ruin it.” 

Erik rolled his eyes. “Hardly. But you’re right, you can’t stay in those wet clothes, you’ll freeze.” He darted away to a chest of drawers, and quickly returned with a bundle of blankets and towels, a thick and ornate Persian robe, and what looked to be a man’s nightgown. His, of course. He shoved the bundle into her arms, and they both looked around his home. It was all one large room, no doors or partitions in sight. “I’ll tend to the fire,” Erik said abruptly, not meeting her eyes. “I swear I won’t – you will have complete privacy.”

“Of course.” Whatever she might have thought of Erik, she knew he was enough of a gentleman not to peep at a lady while she changed. “Thank you,” she sniffled, feeling pathetic. Erik nodded stiffly, and immediately got to work on the fire as he’d promised. It was strange to see his imposing figure kneeling in the soot, lighting matches and stoking logs, but he started a fire as elegantly and competently as he seemed to do everything else. With a jolt Christine remembered that she was supposed to be changing, and began peeling off her outer garments and letting them fall in a heap at her feet. Soon she was down to her chemise, which was practically transparent in its soaking state, and felt acutely vulnerable. But he still had his back turned resolutely towards her, and she didn’t want to fall ill from being foolish, so she sucked in a breath and whipped the chemise off over her head. It felt stranger than she could say, to be standing behind this man, who had been so many things to her but was now just _Erik_ , completely nude in the glow of the small fire he was stoking. Her tears stopped as abruptly as they had started, and the heat of her full body blush contrasted strangely with the chill that was still in her bones. She wrapped a towel around herself quickly, trying to dry herself off as efficiently as possible before pulling the black nightgown over her head. It fell well past her knees and gaped scandalously over her breasts no matter how she tried to tie it. She gave up and left the gown untied at the neck. It had been tailored to fit a painfully tall and thin man, not a woman whose curves had become a bit more ample since retiring from her stage career. She added the robe on top and secured the ties at the chest and waist. It pooled at her feet and was wonderfully heavy and warm, offering much more modesty as well. She took the towel to her hair, knowing it would take hours to dry properly.

“You can turn around. I am decent,” she announced, and Erik stood immediately, clearly having taken longer than he needed to with the fire. He turned to face her, taking a moment to survey her in his mismatched, ill-fitting clothes, and she wished she knew what he was thinking. She wished she didn’t care. 

But he just cleared his throat and said, “Now then, why don’t you sit in front of the fire and tell me what seems to be the matter.”

Christine took the seat and said, “Thank you, for all of this.” A stiff nod was his only reply. “And I am fine. I was just being – foolish.”

“I am sure you were not. What was on the paper that you - ” He gestured towards his own chest, and then stopped abruptly.

Christine sighed. “It was the song I was writing, well, trying to write. I was bringing it to get your advice, but then the rain came from nowhere. That was my only copy. Like I said, foolish.”

“I am sorry. I know how frustrating, even maddening, it can be to lose work in such a way.”

“You do?”

His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I once lost a whole stanza to an errant elbow that bumped a candlestick. Few things are more infuriating than mistakes borne of one’s own clumsiness.”

Christine felt herself smile back. “I cannot imagine you doing anything clumsily.” She immediately felt it was a stupid thing to say. She couldn’t seem to enter his home without getting herself flustered about nothing.

“At any rate, I assure you, you needn’t be so upset. I am sure you can recover most of your song. I can help, if you’d like.”

“Oh it wasn’t just that.” Christine waved a hand. “It was just, everything, you know?”

He frowned. “Not exactly.”

“I’ve just been feeling so - ” She stopped, shook her head. “I come here, and do such wonderful things, and then I go home and lie about it, but I don’t want to stop and it just feels so selfish and unfair to Ra – to everyone.”

Erik barked a humorless laugh. “You think the situation is unfair to your husband? I realize I am lucky to receive even a glance from your direction, but do you ever consider how I sit here, day in and day out, hoping today will be the day I am graced with the gift of your presence, a shred of your company?”

Christine got to her feet. “You know this is all I can give. I have a life, responsibilities.”

“Oh yes such a _life_ you seem to have, Christine. What of the fairness to you? What is fair about the talent of the century being diminished to a silent, pretty ornament for a rich man’s arm? How was it fair for him to take you off the stage? That’s the only reason you have to come to me for scraps of artistic satisfaction in the first place!”

Christine took a step towards him, although she knew she looked ridiculous and anything but imposing at the moment. “How dare you presume to know anything about my marriage? _I_ decided I was done with singing, I said yes to his proposal and I knew what it would mean.”

“And are you happy with that decision, Christine?” Erik’s voice had gone infuriatingly calm.

“Yes,” she snapped, refusing to even dignify the question with hesitation or consideration. “I don’t come here for ‘scraps’ of something that was taken from me. Yes, I miss performing sometimes but I also happen to enjoy your company you silly, obstinate man.”

Erik sucked in a breath. “You do?” She might as well have spoken Chinese for how lost he looked. Although knowing him he’d probably learned Chinese on a whim one afternoon.

“Of course,” she said, much softer than she had been before. “I thought you knew.” She sighed, her shoulders sagging, all the fight going out of her. The movement shifted her baggy, borrowed clothing, baring one of her shoulders, and Erik’s eyes were pinned to her uncovered skin for one small, endless moment before he seemed to remember himself and look away. But they were standing close and the fire was bright, so the moment was enough for Christine to finally decipher the look in his eyes. It was desire, clear as day, and Christine hated how gratifying it was to know he still wanted her after all this time. She covered her shoulder, and had no idea what to do or say next. She could barely remember what they’d been fighting about, and though they were both still breathing rather harder than necessary there didn’t seem to be a lot of anger left in the room. She looked at his lips, thin and uneven like the rest of him, and had to physically walk herself back to her armchair to make sure she wouldn’t do anything she’d regret. She took her seat heavily and looked at Erik, while he seemed determined to stare at anything but her for the rest of the evening.

“Could you really help me get my piece back?” She asked, looking for anything to break the tense silence.

“Yes, but you should sit in front of the fire for some time first to get warm.” 

“Allright.” Christine went back to towel drying her hair and watching Erik as he watched her. He made a striking, long legged silhouette in front of the fire, but he seemed unsure what to do with himself now that Christine was taken care of. She knew he was right to insist she sit by the fire after her expedition, but that meant no moving to the piano or standing to sing. The silence was heavy, only punctuated by the loud patter of rain on the domed roof. If not for the tension in the air, it might have been cozy. “Shall we read something by the fire then?” Christine immediately felt it was a stupid suggestion, but she was desperate for something to do besides stare at one another uncomfortably.

Erik nodded. “If you wish.” He stayed where he was.

“What should we read then?” Christine prompted. 

“Did you know Verdi has a new _Otello_?” Erik blurted.

“Does he now?”

Erik nodded. “It just opened in Milan.”

“I was in the chorus when we did Rossini’s _Otello_ in Paris,” Christine remembered fondly. “Do you think Verdi’s is better?”

“From the score, I would guess so, but I’ve not had the pleasure of seeing it live. I wish the company here would do it, even though they’d be sure to butcher it.”

“Did you want to read a scene from _Othello_ then?” Christine asked, trying to get them to whatever point they were circling.

“Yes, if you would like to.”

Christine smiled. “Certainly. It is one of my favorites.”

The tight line of Erik’s mouth relaxed into something that almost resembled a smile. “Mine as well.” Erik went to pull an armchair up to the fire next to Christine’s, an elegant volume of Shakespeare having materialized in his hands. “What scene then?” he asked, opening the book on the arm of his chair. Christine leaned over to watch while he flipped through pages.

“Hmm, nothing too dour just now, if you don’t mind.” He nodded. “Although that may be a tall order with this particular play,” she mused as the details of the plot came back to her. “Oh, that scene looks nice.” She reached out a hand to stop him turning pages, and then paused as the two of them very carefully did not touch.

“As you wish,” Erik said, his voice carefully even. She would have been more than happy for Erik to read all of the parts of the scene in his glorious voice, but he looked at her expectantly when it was Desdemona’s turn, and she supposed it was a play, after all. By unspoken agreement Erik took the men’s parts and Christine took the women’s. She was delighted when Erik assumed different voices for each character, going convincingly dark and wicked for Iago. For her part Christine was glad she only had Desdemona and a small bit of Emilia to attend to, and that she could still mostly listen. When the titular character entered he earned the voice closest to Erik’s usual speaking voice, and of course, he was speaking of love. As he said, “It gives me wonder great as my content / To see you here before me” Erik looked up at Christine, and for just a moment she imagined how she would feel if he was speaking so to her, as himself. She was frightened by how much she liked it. Erik seemed to warm to the speech, his fine acting skills on full display, so much so that when he proclaimed that if his soul “were now to die, ‘Twere now to be most happy,” she almost believed him, could almost see how all the world’s happiness could perhaps be contained between two people and a flickering fire, in another world maybe, where many things had gone so very differently. It was a bittersweet, aching thought, and she was surprised at the emotion in her own voice as she replied 

“The heavens forbid / but that our loves and comforts should increase, / Even as our days do grow!” She did wish, desperately, for Erik to find some comfort, for him to feel the love that every person deserved, for whatever was between them to grow more comfortable, to become something that didn’t hurt almost as much as it helped. But that was not for them, at least not together, not anymore.

As the scene progressed, both of their eyes seemed to land on the stark stage direction [ _They kiss._ ] at the same time. And Christine wished, suddenly, desperately, that she was able to give him one more first and last kiss, some sort of hollow promise that everything would be all right, would be beautiful between them even when they both knew it would not. But, for the thousandth time that day, she repeated to herself that she was a married woman. She could not kiss another man, ever, even if he recited Shakespeare like he’d written it himself.

They continued the play for a while, and as tragedies were wont to do it eventually took a less lovely turn, and Christine found herself shifting in her seat as accusations of infidelity began to swirl. Erik seemed to sense her discomfort and closed the book abruptly before she even had to ask. She smiled at that, but then her eyes drifted to where she’d hung her dress and undergarments in front of the fire to dry. In her eyes, the display looked much more incriminating than one little handkerchief, and she could only pray that Raoul would never come to know that she’d passed the day nude under another man’s clothes.


	9. Chapter 9

In the end Erik was able to help Christine get most of her composition back, and she found it flourishing as she worked at it through odd hours of the day and night. Tentatively, when she seemed to have most of the music figured out, she began to consider lyrics. She didn’t feel bold or pretentious enough to write in German or Italian, as though this would one day be a scene in a grand famous opera, and she figured there were no laws against operas being written in French anyway. The words she wrote spoke of love lost and regret, but she was able to tell herself that was just what fit the tune the best. Still though, it was hard to explain why she was now unwilling to show it to Erik, when he had helped her so much with its beginnings. “It’s just, it’s _personal_ ” she stalled, the third time he asked. “I’ve never written lyrics before and I am sure I am rubbish at it. It’s embarrassing.”

“Come now,” Erik sounded solemn, but she supposed he usually did. “I know this is your first attempt. I would never mock you or think less of you, and everything you’ve shown me so far has been admirable. Even the worst lyrics could not erase that, and I am sure yours are lovely.”

“ _You_ would never show me your _Don Juan_ when you were composing it,” she said, and then immediately wished she hadn’t. Because of course, back then, once the phantom had demanded they put his opera on, she’d known exactly why he’d never allowed her to see it before. It might as well have been a letter addressed directly to Christine, full of lust and bittersweet love and the sentiment that Erik was a monster that didn’t deserve her. At the time, perhaps he had been right, but she did not think so of this new Erik who had given Christine her freedom, time and again. 

Erik tilted his head, considering Christine in a way that made her feel overexposed. “I should think it would be obvious why I refused to share _that_ particular piece with you.”

Christine sucked in a breath. Her stomach felt as though it was falling through the floor. “It contained things you were not yet ready to say,” she said slowly. She feared she had given too much away, that she may as well have thrown herself at his feet, but Erik merely frowned.

“If you mean that what you wrote contains something private, of course I understand. You could have just said so.”

“Thank you,” Christine exhaled, relieved. 

“I’m just surprised he had it in him,” Erik muttered.

“What?” Christine was lost. “Who are you talking about?”

“The Vicomte, of course. He just never struck me as the sort of man to inspire music, certainly not the kind of music you showed me.”

Christine didn’t know whether to laugh or be angry. She didn’t appreciate Erik’s tone, but the truth was she’d never felt the need to pour any feelings about Raoul into song or verse. Why would she when he was right there and she could always just tell him that she loved him or that if she found one more of his used handkerchiefs discarded on a sofa she was going to scream? Christine settled for shaking her head ruefully and saying, “That’s not it. I mean, it isn’t about Raoul.” Why was she saying anything? Erik had offered her a perfectly reasonable excuse to drop an uncomfortable topic but she couldn’t seem to keep her mouth shut. “It’s just – something I’d prefer to keep to myself for now.”

“Of course.” Christine could hear Erik’s furrowed brow in his voice, even if she couldn’t see it. 

But the subject was finally, blessedly dropped, and Christine’s song began to expand into all the things she couldn’t say to Erik when he was standing right in front of her. How precious his rare smiles were to her. How she never felt more whole than when they were singing together, how her whole body still reacted when she heard his voice. The way he made her laugh and made her feel like she was someone worth taking seriously. One night when she couldn’t sleep she snuck out of bed and surveyed what she’d written, and wondered how she’d ever been foolish enough to think there could be nothing more than singing lessons between them.

It was strange, though, Christine didn’t feel as though her heart was breaking or being torn in two. She still enjoyed Raoul’s company just as much as she always had, still had a true smile for him when they shared a conspiratorial look at dull dinner parties or he held her close at night. It was as though Erik had brought her back alive, reminded her how to feel things fully, and if anything her marriage was better for it. Except, of course, for the fact that it revolved around a huge lie and there was a pit of guilt in her stomach more often than not. It almost made it worse that Raoul didn’t seem to suspect a thing. He still looked at her with all the same love and trust that she knew she didn’t deserve.

But she tried not to think about such things when she visited Erik. She thought that if she was going to engage in deception and secrecy, she might as well enjoy the secret itself. So it was with a spring in her step that she ascended the now familiar staircase to Erik’s home, excited to discuss the poster she’d seen in the lobby of the Opera. “Good morning,” she said brightly as Erik opened the trap door and gave her a hand up into his home.

“It is now,” he said with a nod in her direction, and Christine felt herself color immediately.

“Did you see – well you must have already heard – they’re putting on Verdi’s _Otello_ next month. Here!”

“Yes, I had heard. They’ve been rehearsing, or at least attempting to.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You wouldn’t have had a hand in the Opera’s program, would you?”

Erik’s mouth was a grim line, and she immediately felt she’d said the wrong thing. “No, Christine. As I have told you, I don’t involve myself in such affairs anymore.”

“Just a happy coincidence, then,” she pressed on. “We must see it, when the time comes. Opening night.”

“And how do you propose _we_ see it? Together?”

Christine nodded. “Like we did last time.”

“No,” Erik said abruptly. Christine blinked, taken aback. “I am sorry but I cannot – I cannot sit in the shadows watching you with _him_ , with them, indulging in a pathetic fantasy that I am even just your friend, someone you could bear to be seen in public with. It is too painful.”

Christine sucked in a breath. “Erik I am sorry. I never want to hurt you, and I – I understand, it was insensitive for me to ask this of you.” She swallowed harshly, willing her next words to come, knowing they were right. “If my coming here upsets you, I can stop.”

“No,” he said again, sounding a little desperate now. “You must know, I treasure your visits above all else. And I will not ask anything of you, that you cannot give. I only ask that you grant me my pathetic indulgence, let me pretend that you treasure these meetings too. Seeing you in your real life, outside of this room, it shatters all of that.”

“I _do_ treasure these meetings. They mean more to me than - ” what was she going to say? Than anything? Than Raoul? Was she even ready to ask herself if such a thing could be true? She bit her lip and looked at the floor. “I wish you would believe that _you_ matter to me Erik.”

He laughed harshly. “I would have to be a bit more mad than I am to believe such a thing.” Christine opened her mouth to protest, but Erik shook his head. “I should not mean a thing to anyone, Christine.”

She reached a hand towards him, but he backed away as though she meant to strike him. “Please, you must know that’s not true.” She heard a tremor in her voice, but it wasn’t fair of her to cry about his pain.

Erik took a deep, shaky breath. “What I know should perhaps be contained to music, lest I continue to upset the both of us.” Christine closed her eyes and nodded. She would give him the reprieve he so clearly needed, but if he knew her at all, then he would know that she was nowhere close to finished with the subject.

They continued into a singing lesson, but it was clear that neither of their hearts were in it. As Erik fussily shuffled the papers on his stand, looking for a suitable song, she said, “You know we don’t always have to sing.”

“Hmm?” he asked, still flipping through pages.

“We can just sit and talk, or read or, I don’t know. I just mean it doesn’t always have to be about singing, when I visit.”

Erik drew himself up, looking offended at the mere mention of putting off a singing lesson, and for a moment it was like the old days, when he was only a stern voice on the other side of her mirror. But then he seemed to remember where and when they were, and his posture loosened a fraction. “I suppose it would be acceptable to cut the lesson short, just this once.”

“Very magnanimous of you, _Maestro_.” She had meant to lightly tease, but as the word tipped off her tongue it felt laced with something – more. Erik was suddenly very occupied with sweeping sheet music off of the piano and arranging it on a side table.

“What do you wish to do then?” He looked down at her, for a moment, and Christine found herself studying his strange golden eyes, looking for her answer there.

“Tell me a story?” She felt a little foolish, but Erik just smiled.

“What sort of story?”

“Something true,” she decided as she spoke. “About your life.” What little she could see of his face fell at that. “Something nice, or, pleasant, at least.”

Erik sighed. “Christine, it must be obvious to you by now that my life has not been shaped by pleasant events.”

“Come,” she pressed, not quite sure why she was doing so. She was always pushing and prodding at him, at the walls between them, trying to feel her way through to – what exactly? Some ultimate truth about Erik, something to simplify her endlessly complex feelings about him? “You must have some story, however insignificant you may think it, about someone who was kind to you, who made you laugh, who you helped, perhaps?”

“Someone who was kind to me…” Erik mused. The idea seemed to be a foreign concept to him. “Do you remember Nadir Khan? I ah, often referred to him as Daroga?”

“Of course.” How could he think Christine would ever forget any detail of that final night under the Paris Opera? “He seemed to…know you. Is he a friend?”

“He was at some point, I suppose, or at least as close as I could ever get to such a thing as friendship.” That stung Christine in unexpected ways. “At any rate, he was one of the first people I met during my time in Persia, and one of the few who spoke more than a few words to me. It was from him that I picked up Persian, rather quickly, or at least more quickly than most expected of a foreigner, and an arrogant Frenchman to boot.” Christine grinned and got comfortable on a loveseat, while Erik returned to the piano bench and settled into the rhythm of a story rather than a song. Christine didn’t quite follow all the intricacies of Persian court politics, but she liked listening to Erik’s voice and watching his hands as he talked. And as he got to the climax of his story, something about he and the Daroga conspiring to make a man who had been unkind to them look foolish, his eyes lit up with mischief, a spark Christine hadn’t seen in quite some time returning. A throaty, unladylike laugh bubbled out of Christine, rising to meet his deep chuckle, and it seemed only right that even in laughter they were in perfect harmony. 

“Did you enjoy living in Persia?” Christine asked. “It sounds awfully exciting.”

Erik’s lips thinned, his laugh cutting off sharply. “I suppose it was exciting, but I would not say that I enjoyed it.”

“Where was your favorite place you’ve ever lived?”

Erik paused to consider. “Rome, I suppose. I learned architecture there you know. It was exhilarating, to add to such a beautiful city with my own two hands.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Christine sighed. “I should love to see Italy some day.”

“And you?” Erik asked. “Where is your favorite place?”

“I have very fond memories of Sweden,” Christine considered, “but I was so young they’re a bit hazy. I’m sure I have not lived nearly so many wonderful places as you have, but I think I shall always miss Paris. There’s such a romance to the city. I think it felt magical to me, when I first arrived, after only ever seeing small towns and countryside, and I suppose I never really lost that feeling.”

Erik nodded. “I was much older when I first saw Paris, but I still remember thinking that this was a place that felt special. Different from anywhere else.”

“Don’t you miss it too?” Christine asked. 

Erik looked dour, and Christine felt it was a stupid thing to ask. “I do not know that there’s much of Paris I miss now, except perhaps access to a competently made macaron.”

That surprised a giggle out of Christine. “I’ve hardly seen you eat a thing. I had no idea you had a sweet tooth.”

“There are many dark depths of my psyche you have not yet plunged,” Erik replied with false gravity, and Christine laughed again, imaging the fearsome phantom sneaking into a patisserie in the middle of the night to get his sugary fix.

Christine couldn’t shake the image, even days later when she was starting a new needlepoint project. Without making a conscious decision, Christine found she was planning out pastel circles that bore a passing resemblance to what she remembered from brightly lit windows in Paris. Christine thought she was still fairly hopeless at needlepoint since she hadn’t been doing it her whole life like the other fine ladies she knew, but macarons should be easy enough. She thought they were passable at least, and after some deliberation she put the finished project in her reticule before her next lesson with Erik, hoping it wouldn’t be too embarrassing. She considered just keeping it in her bag as she climbed the many steps to his home, but she shook herself before opening the trap door. She’d spent days working on the silly thing. It would be a waste not to give it to him. And his dwelling was so…dour and impersonal. She like the idea of him having something homey that was just for him, even if it was just a silly thing. She knocked on the door above her head, and it opened to reveal Erik’s gloved hand, which held hers for just long enough to help her up through the trapdoor and no longer. 

“Good day Christine,” Erik said once she was fully inside.

“Hello.” She smiled and then blurted, “I brought you something.”

“Oh?” Erik tilted his head. “Why would you do that?”

“Well, I don’t know.” Christine was suddenly very occupied with digging around in her bag. “We were talking about Paris, I suppose, and it’s nothing really, I just-” her hand closed around the small circle of needlework and she handed it to Erik quickly, finding it hard to meet his eyes.

“Are these…macarons?” he asked.

Christine nodded. “Well, you were talking about how you could only get decent ones in Paris, and I may not have been born there but I think I am pretty much Parisian by now, and I cannot bake to save my life so. This was the closest I could get to making you macarons.” Her face was very warm and she suddenly had no idea what had possessed her to make the silly thing.

“You made this…yourself?” Erik sounded incredulous, and Christine gave a small nod. Did they look that bad? She snuck a glance up at him, but couldn’t make out the expression in his eyes at all. 

“I suppose it was foolish,” she said quickly. “And if you don’t care for it of course I understand. I can just take it back.”

“Christine.” Erik’s voice was choked with emotion, and suddenly his arms were around her, squeezing tight. It only lasted a moment, barely long enough for Christine to register much besides her surprise, but for the barest second she felt herself melting into it, understanding the enormity of such a gesture from him. But then he was backing away, looking horrified. At himself, she realized.

“I am sorry.” He said, “I don’t know what ever possessed me to – I should not have - ”

“Yes, you should have.” Christine rushed forward and took his hands in hers, unwilling to let the moment twist and go sour. “I am touched, that my little present means so much to you.” _Touched_. That was the problem, she knew.

“But I should not have just _grabbed_ you in such a way.” He was cringing away from her, and Christine had to stop herself from stamping her foot. They had been through so much together, did they really need all the hysterics over a simple embrace? With a huff she pulled Erik towards her, surprised at her own strength, and wrapped her arms around his waist. He stiffened, holding himself completely straight with arms at his sides, but Christine refused to relent, and ever so slowly he returned the embrace, his hands resting so lightly on her back that she barely felt them. All at once Christine wanted to cry, at how tentative he was, how good it felt to hold him close like this, how she never wanted to stop. After a long, long moment she stepped back and offered him a weak smile.

“There now, we have embraced as any two friends might when they are happy” _perhaps not two friends of the opposite sex, when one of them happens to be married_. Her mind interjected. _Certainly not in polite society_. But she shook the thoughts away. “And you can tell me ‘thank you’ and I shall say that you are very welcome, and we will be done with the whole silly business.”

“Thank you, Christine.” He said it so solemnly, and she wanted to take him in her arms again and tell him that he deserved someone to be kind and soft to him all the time, and she was sorry she could only offer stray pieces of herself.

Instead she just said, “It was no trouble at all,” and wondered if it wouldn’t have been kinder to leave the blasted needlepoint in her bag after all.

But she knew it was worth the whole ordeal when she noticed the circle of needlepoint resting atop the piano the next time she visited, and on a side table next to an open book the time after that. It seemed to Christine that Erik had been carrying the gift around his home with him, placing it so that it would be in view no matter what he was doing. It made her stomach flutter and then clench to think that she was on his mind so often, that such a tiny thing was so precious to him because it had come from her hands. She thought of the song she’d written about him, now quite complete and hidden beneath undergarments in a drawer in her bedroom, and how much that would certainly mean to him. Was it wrong of her, to hold such a huge testament of affection back from a man who had clearly known so little? Would it be more wrong still to come clean? Christine found herself tossing and turning most nights, vivid dreams full of guilt and desire only half remembered when she woke. And all the while her husband slept soundly beside her, unaware that his wife was a completely different person than she’d been only a few months ago.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, this is the chapter that earns the "E" rating. Here there be smut.

Christine would never know what the final breaking point was. It seemed a day much like any other, when she paused on her way out to the opera and turned back for a sheaf of sheet music written in her own hand. She could not explain, even to herself, why exactly she’d done it, why even now she was sitting in a carriage with the incriminating song burning a hole in her hands. Maybe it was that Raoul was out of town, or that this kind of misty morning made her feel especially melancholy and romantic, but whatever the reason she had decided. Today was the day Erik would hear her song. She could only think that surely even the very worst outcome of this could not be worse than the gnawing uncertainty that had taken her over. Could it?

She found herself trembling as she climbed the now familiar stairs to Erik’s home. This wasn’t a few threads twisted to look like macarons. This was the very essence of her soul, things she had barely been able to admit to herself, scrawled out in 4:4 time. She stopped below the trap door and leaned against the wall, taking deep gulps of air. She didn’t think she’d ever been this nervous, not even the first time she’d performed for a full house. Then all at once the door above her opened and Erik peeked down into the gloom. “Christine?” He said uncertainly.

She smiled and forced a weak “Good day.”

“I could hear you breathing. Did you – wish to come up?”

“Of course.” She took the hand he offered as usual and climbed into his home as she’d now done countless times.

“Is everything allright?” Erik asked, still holding one of her hands even though she was now fully inside.

“Yes.” She paused to brush some errant curls out of her face, unsure how to begin. “I just – I have something to tell you, or, show you, I suppose.”

“Oh?”

“I finished my song.” She blurted. “A while ago actually, but I’ve been so nervous to share it with you.”

“But that’s wonderful Christine.” She caught a rare smile on his lips. “And I understand, how it can be hard to share one’s work, but I promise to be kind, and honest.”

“Thank you,” she said weakly. “Um, may I?” She gestured at the piano, and Erik swept an expansive arm towards it.

“By all means, be my guest.” And for the first time ever, Christine sat alone at Erik’s instrument. She un-scrolled her music and set it on the stand with shaking hands.

“Christine,” Erik caught her eye, and she took a moment to look into his, golden and warm and so very soft. “It’s all right, you know. It’s just me.”

_Exactly, it’s you._ She thought. _That’s why it matters._

Christine took a deep breath, and began. Her fingers were clumsy at first, but she mastered them, and by the time her voice came in she was steady. She sang of uncovering love, peeling back dark, heavy layers to find something beautiful beneath. She sang of lust, misunderstood, shamed, and then finally acknowledged. She sang of music, and her soul, and his soul, and how somehow along the way all three had mixed into one. She felt tears on her face as she finished, but she did not feel fragile. She felt stronger than she ever had. She looked up at Erik to find that he wouldn’t meet her gaze, and her heart sank. Perhaps she had been wrong.

“Well?” She said finally, needing to hear him.

“It was as beautiful as it was cruel,” Erik said, his voice rough and uneven.

“How was it cruel?” She demanded, standing up and wiping the tears from her face.

“Christine you must realize, you must know – enough to guess that I would not wish to hear a heartfelt song about your devotion to another man.”

“Another…?” She shook her head, let out a laugh that was choked with tears. “Isn’t it obvious? That song was about you.”

Erik did look up then, his mouth hanging open in shock. “It cannot be.”

“Could I lie like that?” Christine asked, gesturing at the music still on the stand. 

Erik shook his head resolutely. “Nobody could.” He took one long stride towards her, and then Christine was walking towards him, not aware when she’d chosen to move. They stopped inches apart, Erik’s hands on her waist, her hands cupping the back of his head, over the ties of his mask. 

“Please,” she whispered, tugging gently on the ties so he would know what she meant. “Let me?”

He nodded and breathed, “You can do anything you want.”

She pulled the ties loose and the mask dropped to the floor between them. She moved her hands to his sunken cheeks, ran her eyes over his skull like face, the hole where his nose never grew, and then pressed her lips against his. Erik gasped into her mouth, his fingers tightening on her waist before falling away, as though he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch. Wanting to leave him with no doubt, Christine deepened the kiss, cupping the back of his head and pulling her body flush against his. Christine was alight, awash with feelings from the tips of her fingers to her lips to the line where their bodies met, her chest pressing into his middle as his hips pressed into her. She realized she was on her tiptoes, barely able to reach his mouth when they were both standing, and she pushed him onto the nearest sofa. Erik let himself be adjusted until he was lying on his back with Christine on top of him. They paused there for a long moment just looking at each other, already breathing hard.

“Christine,” he panted. “What?”

“I love you,” she said, pressing her forehead to his. “And I want you. Do you want me?”

Erik put his long fingers in her hair, and tightened them until she gasped. “I have _always_ wanted you. And I will love you until my heart stops.”

The kissing could have lasted minutes or hours, Christine could never say. She was lost in it. Erik was clumsy at first, and tentative, but unsurprisingly he was a quick study, and when she directed his mouth to her neck he seemed to take it as a challenge to kiss and suck every inch of her skin he could reach. She gasped as he reached a particularly sensitive spot behind her ear, shivering in the most delightful way. He moved his focus lower, tracing the shape of her collar bone with his mouth through the lace of her collar. She could feel his breath, hot and fast, against the tops her breasts where her corset began, and she arched up towards him but he still seemed too frightened to take what was clearly being offered. Instead she placed a hand at the bottom of his chin, pulling him back up so she could see his eyes, but he turned his head away. A long spidery hand came up in front of his face, trembling slightly, and Christine knew with a piercing certainty that he had covered himself just so countless times before. 

“Please.” He whispered. “You don’t have to. I can put the mask back before we continue.”

She took his hand in hers and interlaced their fingers, bringing their hands down to his side. “Hush,” she said, licking her lips and watching him track the movement. “Stop talking nonsense.” And then she leaned down to kiss him so soundly that she hoped he would forget he even had a face, much less any feelings he may have about it. They began to grind against each other, an instinctual motion that didn’t need to be taught, and Erik made soft, broken sounds into her mouth. Frustrated with the lack of sensation, Christine rucked up her bothersome skirts and sat back down, straddling Erik to find he was already hard with nothing between them but her briefs and his trousers. Experimentally Christine moved her hips once, and then again, and Erik threw his head back and made a sound like he was dying, but she knew he would survive. Christine looked down, somehow, impossibly shy despite their scandalous position, and struggled to find her voice. “I do believe we are wearing far too much clothing.” He sat up so that they were face to face, and though his hands still trembled he ran them up the outside of her legs to settle on her hips. She wondered with equal parts mortification and elation if the rather prominent damp patch in the center of her briefs had inspired some confidence in him.

Erik put his lips so close to her ear that it tickled, and said in a low, rough, beautiful voice “And what does the lady suggest to remedy such a predicament?” 

Christine took a deep breath, and she wasn’t sure if it was courage or desire that steeled her resolve. What was the difference at this point? “I suppose you’ll have to help me out of my dress.” This was new territory for Chrstine, as any time she’d been with – but no, she couldn’t think her husband’s name with another man between her legs – anytime she’d done this before it had been when a maid had already released her from her complicated day dress and corset and replaced them with a loose nightgown that was easily lifted or removed all together. But she supposed there was nothing else for it. She slid off of Erik’s lap and stood, hearing him heave a sigh at the loss of contact. 

She looked down and surveyed herself. Her previously neat plum dress was now disastrously rumpled, and it felt hot and stifling. She looked up to find Erik also standing, and it was…gratifying, to see his usually pristine wardrobe looking similarly disheveled, his obvious desire for her interrupting the clean lines of his suit. She felt warm all over at that, and raised trembling fingers to the buttons at her throat. Christine felt foolish at first, undoing her bodice while Erik just stood and watched, but then his lips parted and she saw that his eyes were riveted to each new centimeter of skin she exposed. And wasn’t she a performer, after all, at least here in this room? An actress, with all the filthy connotations that carried in high society? She supposed the least she could do was put on a good show. She deliberately slowed her pace with the buttons, letting her fingers drag along her chest as she went, catching in the frills at the top of her corset as she steadily revealed herself. She looked up, once her bodice was fully open, and held Erik’s gaze as she shrugged it off and let it fall to the floor. She should have felt a chill, with arms and shoulders suddenly bear, but the way he looked at her she felt there must have been embers under her skin. She slipped a hand under the waistband of her skirts and held the other out towards Erik. “If the gentleman would oblige?” She said, surprised at how low and sultry her voice had gone. He took a moment to catch her meaning, but then he offered a strong, tense arm for her to hold for balance as she stepped out of her voluminous overskirts, neither of them breaking eye contact for a moment. He seemed unable to hold himself back any longer, at the sight of her half dressed, and all at once they were kissing again, deep and endless. Christine held her body still, allowing Erik to run fluttering, reverent hands over the warm skin of her arms and then the firm boning of her corset before they fisted tightly in her crisp petticoats. Those were soon gone, without Christine quite tracking when or how it happened, and her bustle too was tossed carelessly over the back of his sofa. She should have blushed at the sight, at Erik’s knowledge of an undergarment she’d never thought any man would see, but it didn’t seem to matter anymore. All that mattered was exposing more skin for him to get his long, talented fingers on. Time was moving strangely, so that one moment he was pressing her into the wall, his mouth devouring her neck, and the next she had wrenched herself away with a great force of will to turn her back to him. He stopped touching her immediately.

“Is everything allright?” He asked.

Christine nodded, breathless, embarrassed at how long it took for language to return to her. “It’s – my corset. I can’t reach the laces.” She braced herself against the wall, adopting a similar pose as the one in which her maid helped her in and out of the garment every day, but this felt nothing like that. “Could you?”

“With pleasure” he practically growled, and then he was in her space again, lips pressing into her neck and hair as his fingers sought out the trick of her tight lacing. It always felt good to remove her corset, but as it slowly loosened around her now, with the heat of Erik at her back and her flushed cheek pressed against the cool wall, she couldn’t imagine anything feeling better. Finally the corset was loose enough to shimmy free and Christine was left standing only in her _combination_ chemise and drawers, and plum stockings that matched her long gone dress. She felt almost shy, as she turned back to face Erik, knowing that the thin white linen hid little with the amount she’d been sweating, but it seemed only fair, to expose herself as much as she could when he had already done what she knew was hardest for him in removing the mask. She could see his expressions so clearly, for once, and he was obviously at war between standing back to admire her, and crowding close so that his face would once again be hidden from her. Christine knew she was the one who had to be brave here, so she strode with more confidence then she felt to sit on the sofa once again. She leaned back on her elbows, extending one leg with toes perfectly pointed. Erik stared at her, overawed at the image she was presenting, his awful, wonderful face flicking between delight and disbelief.

“Well?” She called, hardly recognizing the teasing tone in her voice, yet also feeling she was more herself than she’d ever been. “My stockings aren’t going to remove themselves.”

“As the lady wishes,” he breathed, and in one smooth movement he approached the sofa and dropped to his knees before her. His hands were trembling again, and ever so gentle, as they found the frilly top of one of her stockings and began to draw it down her leg with an aching, tortuous slowness. His followed his hands with his mouth, hovering just above her skin but not quite touching so that she could only feel his hot breath. He repeated the movement with the other stocking, and when both of her legs were bare before him he spanned each thigh with one of his hands. For a moment he seemed to indulge himself, squeezing the pale flesh he’d revealed with a low hum of appreciation. Then he dragged his hands down her legs, seeming determined to touch the entirety of her. He caught her ankles and tugged gently so that they were kissing again, Christine sprawled on the sofa while Erik leaned over her. Although she was almost entirely nude, his hands came to cup her face, gentle and reverent for a moment. Then Christine sucked on his tongue, and he groaned into her mouth, fingers tightening in her hair. Feeling like she was about to take a plunge into an icy pool, Christine removed her final undergarments in one quick, ungraceful movement, tossing them carelessly towards the foot of the sofa. When Erik realized what she had done he gasped and moved back, taking in the sight of her in the soft lamplight. Christine felt that they were finally even, as a million un-namable emotions flickered across his naked face while his eyes roved over her naked body. Christine had worried, at some point between when they first kissed and now, that after all this time she might be a disappointment. She was no longer as young or as trim as she had been in her chorus girl days. But of all the feelings that were in Erik’s beautiful orange eyes, that she could guess were in his old, aching heart, she did not think that disappointment was one of them. 

“Take me to bed,” she said, and she didn’t hear the bravado of a performer in her voice any more. She was just Christine, asking for what she had always wanted. Erik nodded, lifting her effortlessly, and she felt very light and precious in his arms. He carried her to a bed she hadn’t noticed before because it was a four-poster draped all in black and tucked away in a shadowy corner. “No more coffin?” she asked, and she felt him let out a small chuckle.

“Well, I did not think there would be anyone around to see it and appreciate the joke. And besides” he laid her out carefully on the bed, and murmured in her ear “as it turns out, coffins are not especially comfortable for the living.”

Despite herself, Christine giggled. She lay completely naked under the fearsome Phantom of the Opera while he spoke of coffins, and she was more aroused than she’d ever been in her life, and she giggled. “Well, these curtains will not do.” Christine got to her knees and pushed back the heavy drapes, letting in some light from the candles and gas lamps that were lit throughout Erik’s home. Then she caught Erik by the lapels and pulled him towards her. “I want to see you.” His face went unbearably soft at that, and she saw tears pool in his eyes. She held onto the back of his neck and kissed him fiercely, wanting to defend him from every single person, including herself, who had ever made him feel that he was not worthy of being seen. She pushed his jacket off of him without breaking the kiss, and began to tug hurriedly at his waistcoat and tie, as though they were the cause of all the pain he had felt. When she got to the buttons of his shirt, he caught her hands.

“Christine, wait,” he panted. “I am not – that is – I do not imagine I am any lovelier below the collar than I am above it.”

Christine held his gaze. “I’ll be the judge of that. If you’ll let me.” He nodded, looking resigned. Christine put his hand on her breast and he gasped, going completely still. Christine took the opportunity to unbutton his shirt, but her fingers fumbled as his thumb found her nipple and tentatively circled it. His hand stilled at once.

“I’m sorry, was that – wrong?”

“No,” Christine was caught somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “No that was, um, very good.”

“Ah,” he said, and repeated the motion. She could feel him watching her face as she finished unbuttoning his shirt and he continued to fondle her, and when he caught her nipple between thumb and forefinger she bit her lip and looked up at him.

“Harder,” she said, and it was a demand, not a request. Erik complied, pinching one breast and then the other, and Christine let her head fall back and her eyes close, fingers scrabbling at the fastenings to his trousers until he was as bare as she was. Not wanting to give him time to remember to be embarrassed, Christine pulled him down to the bed with her and directed his mouth towards her chest. A kiss to the very center of her breast had her arching off the bed, and Erik took the cue, beginning to kiss and suck in just the right spots. Very gently, he grazed his teeth against her and she hissed, “Yes,” wrapping her legs around his waist. “More,” she said, unable to elaborate. But as it was when they sang together, he seemed to know what she needed, how best to complement her, without being told. Now it was his teeth and tongue exploring every part of her breasts, her abdomen, her naval, and her hips were undulating of their own accord, seeking a friction she couldn’t quite find. 

“Christine,” he said, his voice sounding raw and broken. “I have never, that is, you are the first-”

“Yes I know,” she panted, reaching down to stroke his face. She had assumed as much. “It’s allright.”

“But I have, ah, read,” Christine propped herself up on her elbows so she could see his face, hovering above her stomach. It was hard to make out in the dim light, but Christine could have sworn she saw the death’s head blush. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I have read that it can be very pleasurable, for a woman, if her, uh, partner uses his mouth on – on her most intimate parts.” Christine felt her jaw drop open. “Would you like me to?”

Christine licked her lips, struggling to remember how to speak. “I have never – I had no idea, that such a thing was done.” _But his mouth had felt so good on her breasts, it only followed logically_ … “But it sounds – yes. If – if you want to, please do.” 

Not needing any more encouragement, the flat of his tongue was all at once sliding against the sensitive folds between her legs. She bucked up off the bed, and a keening sound she had never heard before escaped her mouth. Erik drew back, and before he had a chance to once again ask if he had done wrong, she gasped, “don’t stop.” He did as he was told, licking and kissing her with apparent enthusiasm, and Christine could find no word to describe the feeling besides delicious. She couldn’t keep still, tilting her hips to somehow bring herself even closer to his mouth, the muscles in her legs tightening across his back, keeping him in place even though he clearly had no intention of moving. His tongue found a particularly sensitive spot and she fisted her hands into the sheets, crying out “yes, there, please!” She felt her release beginning to build, an immense warmth brimming out from the center of her, and she was yelling at the intensity of the feeling, a garbled mess of words that probably included “Erik” and “love.” Erik’s attentions were unyielding, and finally she broke, her pleasure washing over her as she clenched and released against his mouth. She reached down and pulled his mouth up to hers, needing to kiss him even as the aftershocks of her release still rocked through her. She slid a hand down his stomach to find him achingly hard, and as she wrapped her hand around him he made an almost pained noise, pressing his face into her neck as though he was still trying to hide. But it was far too late for that. She pushed his shoulder until their positions switched, her straddling his lap as he lay beneath her, and she gave him a few experimental strokes, marveling as he threw his head back and hissed in pleasure. She liked this more than she could say, the most powerful man she knew sprawled under her and completely at her mercy. 

“Are you ready?” She asked, her voice hoarse and low. 

“ _Yes_ ” he breathed, and then opened his eyes to find hers. “I love you, Christine.”

“And I love you,” she replied with a lump in her throat. She positioned herself above him, holding him gently in her hand, and watched his face as she slowly lowered herself onto his long, hard length. She took all of him, bottoming out so that she was sitting on his lap, and he let out the most beautiful groan she had ever heard. He grasped her hips and sat up suddenly, so that they were face-to-face, Christine’s knees still on the mattress as he held her in place. She raised and lowered herself a few times until he got the idea, and began lifting his hips to meet her. He wrapped his arms around her back, holding her shoulders from behind, and she pressed her hands against his chest to steady herself as she began to move up and down more vigorously. For a long while there was only the sound of their love making, their breath coming hot and fast as they stared into each other’s eyes, the obscene, satisfying slap of Christine’s bottom bouncing against Erik’s thighs. And then they were kissing, Erik alternating between squeezing her hips and breasts, Christine’s hands roaming across his chest and back, her hips snapping towards him faster and faster, the burning in her legs only adding to the pleasure. 

Erik said “oh” softly into her mouth, and then a long drawn out “aaah” and then “I think - I am going to - ”

“Yes.” Christine said, not stopping her frenzied movement. “Do it.” He fell back to the mattress with a broken sound as he found his release, hot and wet between Christine’s legs. She slid off of his lap so that she could lay next to him, and it meant more to her than she could say that his arms came around her immediately, no hesitation or fear left between them. She didn’t even notice, that she was still shifting her hips slowly, until Erik said

“You are close again, to finding your pleasure.”

“Oh,” Christine blushed, “I suppose I am, but it’s allright.”

“Tell me,” he said, and then kissed her long and deep. “Tell me how best to finish you.”

“Oh,” she said again, feeling closer to her release just for having heard that. “I want – your fingers. And your voice.”

“My fingers here?” he asked, lazily stroking two fingers against the sensitive, throbbing place between her legs. She nodded wordlessly, and he moved his mouth so close to her ear that his breath tickled. “Show me,” he murmured, his beautiful voice strained with desire. “Show me how you want to be touched.” Christine was past shame, past any ideas of how a lady should act, as her hand joined Erik’s and directed one and then two of his long fingers inside of her, pressing his thumb against the sensitive bud where she needed him the most. Erik rubbed dutifully, causing pleasure to spark sharp within her, and he said, “I wish you could see how beautiful you are, like this. You are desire personified, a goddess, a siren, calling me to you with every aspect of your being.” Christine gasped, feeling that unstoppable build again, even stronger this time. “Do you know that every single thing about you keeps me up at night, fantasizing? Not just your beautiful face and your” here he paused to press his face between her breasts “delectable body. But the way you move, the way you breath and laugh and talk and sing.” It was on that word that she broke, letting out a cry of pleasure, of victory, that seemed to echo not just through Erik’s home, but perhaps the entire opera house. It was some time before she came back down to earth, panting and held safe and warm in Erik’s arms. He was so still and quiet that she wondered if he could have fallen asleep, but she looked up to find him quite alert, staring into her face with an inscrutable expression.

“What are you thinking?” She asked, shifting to rest a hand on his chest.

“When you kissed me, years ago I mean, in Paris, I thought I had tasted all of the joy that life had to offer. And now I am thinking that I have never been more wrong in my life.” Christine grinned and ducked her head. “Is it always like that?” he asked quietly. “I mean, is it always so” he waved a hand vaguely, seeming unable to find the word.

“No,” Christine said. “I have never experienced anything like that. The intensity, the – the - ” Christine had a vivid mental image of Erik’s face between her legs, and suddenly she couldn’t find her words either. “I did not know it could be like that.”

“So it was better with me than it is with your Vicomte?”

Christine sat up abruptly at that, hugging her knees to her chest. Erik had brought the real world crashing back into his bed far sooner than she would have liked. “Why would you ask me something like that?”

“One likes to know where one stands,” Erik said, and Christine recognized the false flippancy in his voice. He was preparing to be hurt.

“I just broke my marriage vows.” The full implications of what they had done were hitting her in waves. “And I love you.” She swallowed around a lump in her throat. “And I still love him too. And I don’t -” her breath hitched “I don’t know what I’ve done.” She burst into tears, shoulders shaking, and she waited for Erik to shout at her, to expel her from his home. But instead he placed a gentle hand on her back.

“You’ve given a monster an exquisite moment in time, something beautiful for which I will always be grateful.”

“You’re not - ” she began, but he shushed her and ran a soothing hand through her hair.

“I think the question now, Christine, is what will you do next?” It was worse, somehow, that he was being kind to her when she felt so wretched.

“I don’t know,” she sniffled, feeling equal parts vile and pathetic. “I have to tell Raoul,” she decided out loud. “I cannot keep lying to him, no matter the cost.”

“And then?” Erik asked, his hand falling away from her. 

She was a coward, for not being able to look back at him in that moment, and she hated herself for that just as much as she did for everything else. But she stared resolutely ahead and said, “I truly do not know.”

“I see.” Erik said, and there was no malice in his voice. There was no feeling at all. She did turn around then, to find him leaning against the headboard, his jaw clenched, his eyes very far away. 

“I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I should have never - ”

“Don’t” Erik shook his head. “I cannot bear to hear you regret this. Anything else I can survive, but not that.”

“I don’t regret it,” Christine whispered, and she knew that fact was what made her guiltiest of all. She reached across the soiled sheets to hold Erik’s hand. “No matter what, I never will.”

There didn’t seem to be much to say after that, and she slipped out of Erik’s bed, finding his shirt and slipping it over her head as she went. She couldn’t bear the though of searching his whole apartment for her discarded and disgraced undergarments, so she just pulled the plum skirt and bodice over his shirt, fingers shaking as she did all the buttons. Her hair had all come down at some point, and she knew from experience that it would be huge, frizzy and tangled after her activities. She felt around in the mass of curls, searching in vain for some pin or fastening that might be left. Suddenly Erik was at her side, holding out a ribbon that Christine’s maid had put in her hair this morning, what felt like lifetimes ago. “Thank you,” she said softly, taking the offered ribbon and tying her hair back into a bun without the assistance of a mirror. She knew she must look frightful, indecent to be out in public, but she was indecent, a fact which her husband and all of Vienna were likely to know soon, so what difference did it make? She opened the trap door to make her escape, but turned back before she took the first step and looked to Erik. “Kiss me before I go?” she called, her voice wavering. 

He came to stand in front of her. Somehow he was impeccably dressed once again, mask and all. He seemed so far away from her, behind the porcelain. “Is this a kiss goodbye?” he asked gravely. 

Christine took a deep breath, determined not to start crying again. “I’m not sure,” was all she could give him. He just nodded, slipped a hand under her jaw, and kissed her sweet and slow. She tried to memorize all of it, his smell, his taste, the feeling of his mask pressing into her skin. And then it was over, and she was leaving, and it was a small mercy that the Opera’s lobby was empty in the late afternoon sun, and another that her carriage had waited for her all this time, and the driver offered no conversation besides a polite greeting. And then she was home, back to the mundane opulence of her life outside the Opera, as though nothing at all had happened. She had some time, as she entered the bedroom, before she needed to call for Maria to put her appearance right, before Raoul would be home for dinner. And so she crumpled to the floor, and wept as she hadn’t in years.


	11. Chapter 11

Eventually Christine did call for her maid. She couldn’t face her husband smelling like another man. Maria came in to find Christine still sitting on the floor with fresh tears on her face. Christine could only imagine what a fright she looked. “Oh _Herrin_ what has happened? Are you all right?”

Christine got to her feet and said, “Yes, yes I’m fine. Would you be so kind as to run a bath for me?”

“Of course.” Maria was still looking at her like she’d grown a second head, but she moved through to the washroom. Christine heard her turn the tap for hot water, still a novelty for a girl like Christine who had grown up common. She realized with a jolt that any moment Maria would come back into the bedroom to help Christine undress, and she would find that there was nothing to help with under Christine’s dress beside’s a man’s shirt. At a loss for what else to do, Christine stripped as quickly as she could, and walked into the washroom without a stitch. It was nothing her maid hadn’t seen before. Maria was obviously surprised at the change in routine, and Christine smiled apologetically.

“I confess I am in a bit of a hurry. Could you lay out a dinner dress for me while I bathe?” Maria nodded, wide eyed, seemingly fixated on something besides Christine’s face. Christine looked down to find a harsh red mark below her collarbone. It had clearly been left by a mouth, and was too fresh to be the work of her husband, who had been gone since yesterday. Christine felt her heart in her throat. “Something with a high neckline, if you please.” Maria nodded and left the room, and Christine plunged into the bath, wishing it could wash her away entirely.

All too soon preparations were being made for dinner, and Christine was pacing in the drawing room, waiting for Raoul to return so she could tell him the impossible truth. It occurred to Christine, briefly, that she had gotten home and cleaned up in time. That she could get away with this, for years perhaps, given her husband’s trusting nature. But though the thought was tempting, Christine knew she couldn’t live like that. It would break her, and perhaps all three of them, eventually.

When Raoul finally arrived and pressed his lips to hers in their usual greeting, she couldn’t even kiss him back properly. She felt so false, the memory of Erik’s tongue in her mouth only hours old. Raoul drew back immediately and looked into her face, full of concern.

“Is something wrong?” He asked, so gentle, so kind, so undeserving of what she had just done.

Christine took a shaky breath. “I have to tell you something.” Perhaps she should have let him get comfortable first, let him eat something after a full day of travel. But suddenly she couldn’t bear to act for one more moment.

“What is it?” He cupped her face in his hands. “Are you allright?”

“Yes.” Christine exhaled heavily. She just had to get the words out. “I have been unfaithful to you.”

“What?” Raoul’s brow was furrowed, as though what she said couldn’t possibly fit into his reality. “If this is some kind of joke, I don’t find it funny Christine.”

“It’s not a joke,” Christine whispered. “I – I’ve been with another man.”

Raoul dropped his hands from her face and took a startled step back. “I can’t” he shook his head, “I can’t believe this. What – when did this happen?”

Christine covered her face with her hands, wondering distantly if the servants could hear them. “Today,” she admitted. “It was the first time, I swear. I never intended-”

“Who?” Raoul demanded, cutting her off. 

Christine blinked, taken aback. Somehow, she had expected that part to be obvious. Who but _him_ could tempt her to such sin? Who else in the world could there be for her? But of course, she’d lied to Raoul from the beginning. He didn’t even know that Erik was still alive, much less living in the same city. She brought her hands to her waist, trying to steady herself. “It was Erik.”

Raoul only looked more confused. “What? We don’t know any Erik’s. What is his surname?”

Christine had a mad desire to laugh. After all this time, she still didn’t know. “It was _Erik_ Raoul, _the_ Erik. The reason we left Paris. The person we never speak of.”

“But – you said this happened today?”

Christine nodded. “I have been seeing him for months. Just for music lessons, until today. He – he lives at the opera house here now. I met him by chance, the first time you and I went to the opera.”

“Oh Christine,” Raoul didn’t look angry anymore. He looked worried again, and sad. “You’ve had some sort of terrible dream. Or, I don’t know, confused memory with the present somehow.” He approached her slowly, as though she was a wild animal, and took her shoulders gently. “We are in Vienna, darling. Everything with _that man_ happened years ago. And you were never unfaithful. You came to me pure on our wedding night.”

Christine shook his hands off. “I know where we are. And _when_.” Of all the reactions she had anticipated, Christine had never thought she would be treated like a foolish child awoken from a nightmare. “As I said, Erik lives here now. We met by chance, and I have been seeing him for some time now. But it was always – innocent – until today.”

Raoul shook his head. “Christine, listen to yourself. You just happened to run into a man from another country, who is wanted by the police, at _another_ opera house, and you have been seeing him with me none the wiser? It does not make any sense.”

“But it is the truth,” Christine insisted. 

“My dear…” Raoul looked truly frightened now, placing a hand to her forehead as though he was checking for a fever. 

“I can prove it.” Christine grabbed Raoul’s hand, leading him past their untouched dinner, up the stairs to her chambers. She left him in the doorway of her bedroom, looking utterly confused, and rifled under her bed until she found where she had stashed Erik’s shirt. She grabbed it in a bundle and shoved it into Raoul’s hands. “Look, another man’s shirt. How do you explain that?” Raoul shook the garment out and held it at arm’s length to survey it. It was immediately obvious that it was tailored much leaner and longer than anything Raoul owned. In fact Christine had only ever met one man who was so tall and thin. Raoul brought the shirt to his face, inhaled, and immediately flinched away. She knew what it must smell like. Herself. And Erik. And sex. 

“Why would you have his shirt?” He asked, sounding so small and unsure.

Christine closed her eyes. She knew she would have to be graphic, to be detailed, if Raoul were ever to believe her. “Because I needed something to wear under my dress, and all of my undergarments were scattered across Erik’s home.”

Raoul gasped and dropped the shirt. “It is true, then.” His voice was very quiet. “Somehow, he has followed us here, has taken you back under his spell, has taken advantage of your kindness and _violated_ you.”

“No.” Christine said firmly. “I asked to see him again, after we met for the first time. I went to his home. I chose to come and go freely, every time. And today. I wasn’t planning it, but _I_ seduced _him_. This has been my choice, from the beginning.”

Raoul shook his head. “You have been – happy, these past months. Alive, like I haven’t seen you since – since” Christine saw tears in his eyes. “I thought, that things were finally improving for you. I thought _we_ were happy. But all this time it’s been _him_?” His tears began to fall, and Christine wanted to embrace him but she knew he wouldn’t want it.

“We were happy. I mean, I _am_ happy, with you. It’s just, he makes me happy too. In a way I’ve never known before.”

Raoul nodded, taking a sharp breath and wiping his eyes furiously. “So what will you do now?”

“Me?” Christine shook her head. “I thought, you would surely leave me, or order me never to see him again. I know I can never make this up to you, but I shall do whatever I can.”

“But what do _you_ want, Christine?” Raoul asked. “Do you want to be with him, still?”

“I want to be with _you_. You are my husband and I love you.”

Raoul clenched his jaw. “But you did not answer my question.”

Christine closed her eyes and felt a few tears slip out. She didn’t think she had any left. “I want to be with him also. I love him too.”

Raoul sucked in a breath as though she had slapped him. “You love him,” he repeated. “Yet you say you still love me too.” 

“I do still love you,” Christine insisted, and as she said it she knew it was true. “My feelings for you have not changed. I just-”

“Have fallen in love with, and gone to bed with, another man.”

“Yes,” Christine whispered. “I am so, so sor-” he held up a hand to cut her off. 

“I can’t be here right now. I can’t hear this from you. I can’t - ” he shook his head, his voice thick “I need some time. If I speak to you now I fear I will say something I shall never be able to take back.” Christine nodded her understanding, and Raoul left her room, slamming the door on the way out. 

Christine sat on her bed, waiting for Raoul until long after dark had fallen. She was trying to pick through a messy tangle of emotions. There were nerves at what Raoul would say when he came back, if he came back, plenty of sorrow and guilt, both for the pain she had caused Raoul and for the way she had left Erik, but also a strange sense of relief. Everything was known now, out in the open, and no matter what happened next Christine couldn’t imagine it could get much worse. Finally there was a soft knock at her door, and Christine found her voice surprisingly steady as she called “come in.”

She studied Raoul’s face as he entered. She could tell that he had been crying, but there were no fresh tears. He seemed somehow resolved, but to what she could not guess. “I suppose I should have known that it was always going to be like this.” Christine tilted her head, confused but content to listen. “Me, and, and _him_ each having a piece of you.” Raoul shook his head. “Not a piece, that isn’t right, because you are whole when you are with me, I know you are. A side, then. There’s a side of you that is only satisfied by him, isn’t there? That’s why you’ve been more like – like you once were, these past months.” 

“Yes,” Christine admitted. The least she could give him now was the truth. 

“But,” Raoul continued. “You did not immediately leave me for him, so it follows, I mean, I have to think, there must be a side of you that is pleased by me as well?”

“Of course,” Christine said. It pained her, to know he had doubted it. “All the words of love I’ve spoken to you, the vows I took at our wedding, I meant them all, I just-”

“You had a different love, sitting along side it.”

Christine hung her head. “I did not recognize it as such until recently but, yes, I suppose that’s right.”

“So it seems to me, that the only way for you to be – fulfilled, for you to be the vibrant woman I proposed to on the roof of an opera, is to continue to love us both.”

Christine frowned “but how?”

“Just as you have been doing, I suppose. It seems you have been able to conduct yourself discreetly so far.” Christine didn’t begrudge the bite to his words. She knew she deserved them.

Christine shook her head. “You’re suggesting that we stay together, and I continue to be unfaithful to you.”

“I do not think it’s unfaithfulness, if done in good faith.” Raoul caught her eye. “If done with my – perhaps not my blessing, but at least with my permission and knowledge.”

Christine felt her mouth drop open. “Why would you agree to such a thing? I could never allow it, it would be so selfish of me.”

“But it wouldn’t, don’t you see? I’ve known there has been something off, something missing for you, since we left Paris. I thought it was you healing from him, but now I see it was you _missing_ him.”

“I think it was a bit of both,” she murmured. 

“And the truth is Christine, I love you better when you are not missing anything, when you are bright and alive and singing.”

“Have I been singing?” she asked, startled. “In front of you, I mean?”

Raoul gave her a sad smile. “You truly didn’t notice? You have been singing almost constantly, under your breath when you read or you stitch, louder when I’ve left the room and you think I don’t notice. I may not be able to recognize the tune, or understand the artistry, but I know it means that you are happy.”

“Oh,” Christine said, her voice choked with tears, and she rushed to pull Raoul into her arms. He returned the embrace just as fiercely, and for the first time in her life Christine thought that perhaps her husband truly did know the woman he held in his arms.


	12. Chapter 12

Christine did not realize she was fretting over her breakfast until Raoul said, “Are you nervous, Christine?”

She put down the roll she had been shredding rather than eating. “I suppose I am.”

“Will you go and see him today?”

“If I…may?” Christine frowned. She didn’t have the faintest clue how to navigate this. “It doesn’t seem fair, to keep him in suspense.”

“But you worry about making him your proposal?”

“It’s our proposal,” Christine said softly.

“Well I’m certainly not about to go make it to him,” Raoul said. 

“Raoul, I don’t have to. If you’ve changed your mind-”

Raoul shook his head. “I just want to be sure. You do feel safe with him? Do you fear his anger, at coming home to me? Will he let you leave again?”

“Oh it isn’t that,” Christine rushed to assure him. “He wouldn’t hurt me. Even if he is angry he will not stop me if I wish to leave. I just-”

Realization dawned on Raoul’s face. “You are afraid he will reject you.”

Christine nodded. “I never in a thousand years thought that _you_ would agree to such a thing, much less be the one to suggest it. How can I expect to meet with two men who would be so generous, so forgiving of me? I don’t deserve it from either of you.”

Raoul shrugged. “I don’t think that’s true. I know you have given up much, to be my wife. Perhaps I did not realize how much, until last night. But I think it is fair for me to give way on something that you need.” 

_Need_. That was it. It would be simpler for Christine to turn away from Erik, even now. It would be kinder to her husband, she knew. But it was not just Erik that she needed. It was music, and passion, and a piece of her life that was only her own, and the feeling that her time on this Earth would mean something, even if she only left behind a few simple songs that only one man, one genius, had heard. “Thank you,” Christine said, looking Raoul full in the face. “And I am so, so sorry for the way I have gone about this. I should have been honest from the beginning.”

“If you had been honest from the beginning, I never would have let you out of my sight,” Raoul said ruefully. “Perhaps I needed the evidence first, of the good it does you to see – that man.” He wrinkled his nose. “Well, stop using me to stall. Your nerves are making me nervous. Go and get your answer before we both lose our, ah, nerve.” Christine smiled despite herself, and gave Raoul a long kiss before ordering the carriage.

Once again she trembled, as she climbed the many stairs to Erik’s home, and hesitated, before knocking on the trap door. But she reached over her head and gave two firm raps before she could second-guess herself. The door creaked open slowly, and Christine stepped up to find Erik’s home in disarray. Books were scattered across the floor as though they’d been flung violently, and what looked like torn up compositions were strewn across the tables. It was gloomy and cold without a fire in the grate. Erik himself did not look much better, dressed only in trousers and a thin white shirt that showed the bones of his chest where it fell open at the neck. The mask, of course, was firmly in place.

“You didn’t think I would return?” she asked, taking in the scene. 

“No.” Erik’s beautiful voice was rough and strained. He cleared his throat and tried again. “No, I did not think I would ever see you again.”

“Well here I am,” Christine spread her arms, feeling foolish. “Are you glad to see me?”

“Always,” he bowed his head. “But I should like to know why you are here.”

She dropped her arms. “I ah, I talked to Raoul.” Erik wouldn’t look at her, but she saw his hand tighten on the back of a chair. “I told him everything. And he thinks – well I mean I think so too, that is I’m suggesting, if it is agreeable to you-”

“Christine,” Erik grated out. “Please, just put me out of my misery.”

She twisted her hands in her skirts, determined to look at Erik as she spoke even if he would not look at her. “I wish to stay married to my husband, and I want to be with you.” She sucked in a breath. “Raoul – understands. He and I think that if I continue to love both of you, but no one is being deceived, then there is nothing wrong in it. I know this must not be what you hoped to hear. And of course I understand if it isn’t something…” She trailed off. Erik was looking at her now, and his unreadable orange eyes were burning holes through her.

“You are suggesting, that we continue as we have been, but with your husband’s blessing?”

“Yes,” Christine said softly, looking at the floor.

“May I kiss you?” 

Christine laughed in relief and it was all mixed up with a sob. “Of course.” And then he was in her space, cradling her jaw in his long fingers and kissing her with the same determination and precision with which he played a sonata. Christine pulled back, but kept her hands laced behind his head in case he got any ideas about going anywhere. “It’s allright with you? Truly?”

“Christine.” He ran a reverent finger along her bottom lip. “It has been ages since I even dreamed that I would be any real part of your life, that any part of you would be mine. But yesterday you gave all of yourself to me, you risked your marriage for me. I thought the most I could hope for was to be something you hid away but, this is so much more.” He shook his head. “I don’t know, perhaps I should be jealous or feel cheated, but in all honesty I cannot be bothered with who you’ll go home to when you’re here in front of me now.” She threw his arms around his neck and went up on her tiptoes to reach his mouth better. He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her easily, and she let out a squeak of surprise and delight. He sat her gently on a table and continued to kiss her thoroughly. She reached up to remove his mask and he stepped back from her with a hiss.

Christine dropped her hands to her lap and said, “I’m sorry. I will not take it, if you don’t want me to. But I do so like to see you.”

Erik shook his head. “That cannot possibly be true.”

“It is,” she insisted. “When your mask is off I can see your feelings on your face so clearly. I can see-” she smiled up at him helplessly, feeling her eyes well with tears for some foolish reason. “I can see how much you love me.”

Erik didn’t answer her, but he raised shaking hands to the ties behind his head and slowly undid them. He took the mask in one long hand and placed it carefully on the table next to Christine. She took his ruined face in her hands and began to slowly kiss every single part of it. There had been so much need and passion the day before, that there hadn’t been time for this. For tenderness. Erik was trembling in her hands and then crying, and she kissed the tears too. He heaved a great, shaky breath and pressed his face into her neck, his hands grasping at her skirts. Christine rubbed one of her hands across his back and used the other to cradle the back of his head. She wanted to hold more of him, to wrap herself around him so tight that none of his past hurts could get in. “Perhaps we would be more comfortable in bed?” she suggested softly. Without a word Erik lifted her and carried her towards his bed. She almost protested, saying that she could walk just fine, but she couldn’t quite say she minded being carried around like a precious bouquet. He placed her carefully onto the bed and she patted the space beside her, but he stayed looming over, pressing kisses into her mouth and neck with an intensity that almost frightened her. Through it all she could feel that he was still crying and coming apart at the seams. “Erik wait,” she pushed gently on his shoulder until he drew back and looked at her. “What are you doing?”

“Is this not what you wanted?” Christine tilted her head, confused. “You asked me to take you to bed, to see to your – your pleasure, your passions, I thought.” Christine shook her head, trying to find the right words, and he seemed to take the gesture as an overarching refusal, his expression twisting into one of horror as he stepped back. Christine clung to the front of his shirt, determined that he would not misunderstand her in a moment as important as this.

“I would never ask such a thing of you when you are distraught.” She smoothed a hand across his chest. “I truly only suggested the bed for comfort.” _So I could comfort you_ she finished in her head. Erik still looked horribly confused, and Christine felt her heart sink. “You must know, that two people can lay together just to be close, not always for” she blushed and cleared her throat “for sex.”

Erik’s voice broke as he said “Why would I know that, Christine?”

She ached for him in that moment, but she forced a small smile on her face. “Let me show you, then.” She ushered him to bed with her and pulled him close, guiding his head to her chest as she wrapped her arms around him. Slowly, his hand found her waist, and she felt his muscles loosen as his breathing began to even out. “You see?” she asked softly, afraid to break the peaceful moment.

“Yes,” Erik’s voice was calmer, but she still caught a tremble in it. “Oh Christine, yes I do.” He pressed his face into the crook of her neck and wrapped his arms around her tight. She shifted so that they were on their sides, facing each other, so she could embrace him too. She wondered if he had ever been held before, not necessarily as a lover, but even just as a friend, or a son. The thought brought tears to her eyes. She rubbed a hand over his back in slow circles, humming something old that she thought her father used to play. The words were in Swedish but she didn’t bother searching for them. The tune was enough. 

Christine had not slept much the night before, between waiting anxiously for Raoul’s answer and then talking with him about it long into the night. Christine asking if he was sure, Christine trying to apologize, Raoul unable to hear that, yet, but promising her he wanted this too. They had snuck downstairs and eaten the dinner that had gone cold, at some point, and it was almost dawn by the time they fell into bed. In the past when they quarreled, they often made up by making love, but there had been no heat between her and Raoul last night. Just sore hearts and soft, reassuring touches. It was ironic, she thought, as sleep began to pull her under now, in Erik’s arms, that on her first day of openly occupying the bed of two men, neither had sought her out to sate his lust.

Christine woke slowly, not sure where she was for a moment as she saw dark curtains hanging around her. She was reminded forcibly of the first time she had fallen asleep in Erik’s home under the Opera in Paris, how she had felt as though she had awoken into a new world. Erik was still asleep, their limbs a loose tangle between them, and Christine took a moment to watch him without being watched back. His face did not seem so strange like this, half smushed into a pillow with his luminous orange eyes shut. If Christine shut one eye herself, blocking out the hole where his nose should have been, she was left with the profile of an almost ordinary man, albeit a worryingly pale and thin one. A face seemed such a silly thing, to determine one’s whole life. What was a face, next to a mind or a voice or a soul? She knew outside this room, such things still mattered. She wasn’t naïve. Her own life likely would have been quite different if she didn’t have the luck of being blessed with a pretty face. Even if her voice had been unchanged, no one would have wanted a plain primadonna center stage, or accepted an ugly actress on the arm of a dashing Vicomte. But here and now, the whole thing seemed so frivolous, so unfair, and Christine wanted to rage at anyone who had ever been cruel to this man just because of what they saw, herself included. There were plenty of other things to find fault with, she knew, and she did wonder sometimes if there was something wrong in her, that she could forgive Erik for his truly ugly past. But she could not see what profit there was in shunning this man who had already sealed himself away from the world, content to die alone, believing, she knew, that he deserved nothing else. What harm could there be, in the two of them living instead?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to read or leave kudos or comments. The support I've received for this story has been lovely and gratifying. And while this is the end of this story, I've toyed with ideas for one shots within this universe throughout the characters' lives. I'm not sure if I'll ever write them, but I can assure you that Christine and both of her men do, in fact, live happily ever after.


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